


Bad Education

by magicspacehole



Series: Bad Education [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, Humor, POV Tom Riddle, Professor Tom Riddle, Teaching, there i tagged it correctly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicspacehole/pseuds/magicspacehole
Summary: What he had pictured in his head when he'd first thought of teaching were long, sweeping orations, students hanging on his every word, young minds being taken in and inspired by his message. What he did not fully consider, however, was that he would actually have to teach. (In which Tom Riddle begins teaching at Hogwarts and realizes just what a horribly stupid idea it was.)
Series: Bad Education [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122854
Comments: 398
Kudos: 244
Collections: Genuary 2021





	1. Professional Development

If Tom Riddle had ever had the desire to classify his worst miscalculations into some sort of hierarchy of failure, choosing to work at Borgin and Burke's would probably have been at the top of that list - even higher than that time he shot himself in the foot by killing a Muggle-born and almost accidentally causing the closure of the school he so desperately did not want to leave.

Not that he would ever _actually_ have admitted to failure, of course.

But he might have conceded, in this hypothetical exercise in choice analysis, that the decision to forgo all the generous offers of employment he'd received upon graduation, and to wave away the promise of a stable income and upward mobility in order to work in - of all things - retail, may have been a bit hasty.

But Tom had had a goal, and he was certain he knew the best way to achieve that goal.

At the time.

He was certain at the time.

And the brilliant strategy he'd come up with required working in a dingy shop in Knockturn Alley for two barely functioning idiots who knew less about magical history than he did and who couldn't even get his name right half the time.

"Mornin', Roodle," said Caractacus Burke, lumbering into the shop visibly hung over and staying faithful to his schedule of drinking six out of seven nights a week.

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon, sir."

"Yes, two sugars, please. Thanks." Burke stumbled into the back room, barely noticing the massive, tentacled, fanged book that Tom was trying to stuff into a box, and certainly not offering to help.

Tom wondered whether, someday in the future, Borgin and Burke would look back on his time there and realize that they'd been using the Most Powerful Dark Wizard of All Time to balance their ledger.

Borgin was somehow even more difficult to deal with than Burke. It seemed that no matter how many priceless, rare artifacts Tom brought in or how much money he made them from sales, any time he was not visiting clients, Borgin had him performing menial tasks like inventory and restocking, and would criticize him the _entire time_.

So, when four o'clock moved to five, and he had moved from deadly book beasts to hanged men's hands, he was not at all surprised when Borgin suddenly appeared and started asking questions.

"What are you doing with those?" he asked when he saw Tom at the back counter, piles of shriveled human hands all around him.

"Sorting," Tom said without looking up.

"What do you mean, 'sorting?'" He sounded as if he were trying to seem only vaguely interested, but Tom could tell without looking that he had begun to count the hands as soon as he'd seen them.

"For inventory purposes, sir."

"Inventory? They're all Hands of Glory! Surely you need only count them."

That was an interesting statement coming from the man who had once spent an entire afternoon lecturing Tom on the detailed differences between medieval, Renaissance, and Victorian wand holders, all of which did one thing: held wands. And rather poorly, at that.

"And why do they need counting, anyway?" Borgin demanded. "It's only the category three and higher artifacts we need to account for in the ledger."

"I thought perhaps we could sell the bulk and reinvest in some more popular, slightly rarer items."

"Sell…?" Borgin's eyes widened. "No, no. We can't sell those. I need them." He scooped up the hands like a paranoid squirrel protecting a particularly tasty pile of nuts and threw them back into the box.

"Very well, sir," said Tom flatly, watching the man with narrowed eyes.

"It's not that I don't appreciate your initiative, Tom, but these are- well… we need them." He closed the box and sealed it shut with his wand, then picked it up and carried it back to the storeroom without another word.

Tom decided it was best not to ponder the reasons his boss might hoard Hands of Glory so obsessively. What a man did in his private time was his own business. But how nice it would be, he thought, if he were to just quit then and there and move on to bigger and better things, leaving Borgin and Burke to fend for themselves.

They'd probably be dead within a week.

At six o'clock he made to leave, but just as he opened the back door, a small owl flew in, landed on a shelf, and held out its leg rather arrogantly.

He removed a tiny scroll from the owl, which hooted rudely before it flew off, clearly offended by having to visit such an unsightly part of town. _Well, that was poor customer service_ , he thought. Though, admittedly, the bird showed more personality than anyone he worked with.

Burke came out of nowhere and snatched the scroll from Tom's hand. "Been waitin' for that," he slurred, opening it roughly with fat fingers and squinting to read the small print. "Ah, Smith."

"I can go, sir," Tom offered, eager to avoid another day of Borgin's obsessive hoarding. "We've developed a good rapport-"

"Nah." Burke waved his hand. "No need to trouble yourself. I'll get this one. She'll have a few random heirlooms she wants to show off, I'm sure."

But it was written all over Burke's face: he and Smith had other business to attend to.

Feeling slightly nauseous, Tom retreated toward the door, but naturally, as if the universe were singling him out for torture, his path was blocked by Borgin.

"Before you go," he drawled, "we've just received another shipment in of carnivorous codices. Would you mind stocking before you leave? Otherwise they'll destroy the back room and, well... We'll probably end up with twice as many of them by the morning." He flashed a disgusting grin. "Like rabbits," he added.

It was becoming apparent - well, more like painfully, _agonizingly_ obvious - that it was time for Tom to make a change. And so, as he opened the first box of eldritch book monsters that really had no reason for existing at all except to make his life utter hell, he decided that he would.

* * *

_Dear Mister Borgin and Mister Burke,_

_Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from Borgin & Burke Alternative Magical Supply and Trade Company, LLP._

_It has been an honor working with you both these past five years,_

Well, that was a lie. He'd had to stop himself from murdering both of them on at least seven separate occasions and was still undecided about murdering them once he quit.

_and I thank you for the opportunity to develop my career in the trade and study of rare items and artifacts._

Trade. Steal. Whatever.

_Please keep in touch,_

But really, don't.

_and I wish you and your company continued success in the future._

He would not have cared if the whole place burned down right that second.

_Sincerely,_

_Tom M. Riddle_

He folded the parchment and set it aside. If all went well, he would give the letter to Borgin and bid good riddance to the shop. If not, he'd have to rethink his approach.

He pulled out another piece of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, then paused for a moment, thinking. He'd been up all night and only in the early hours of that morning had he made a decision. It was another brilliant strategy - one that would hopefully work better than his previous brilliant strategy. Yes, this made sense.

 _Dear Headmaster Dippet,_ he wrote.

* * *

Tom waited all day for a reply from Hogwarts, only half paying attention to what he was doing and largely ignoring Borgin's complaints about absolutely everything.

It was likely that the school had already found its lineup of teachers for that year, as it was now the middle of August. But he still thought it was worth a try, especially given the fact that the previous professor had _just_ retired. Also, the shop had become so intolerable that the entire Alley burning to the ground in a mysterious explosion and Tom conveniently disappearing afterwards was becoming an increasingly likely scenario.

Burke returned from his (for lack of a better term) "client visit" that afternoon, donning a ridiculous smile and throwing a small box onto the counter.

"Successful acquisition, sir?" Tom asked.

"You could say that," he chuckled.

Tom gestured toward the box. "I meant in terms of artifacts, sir."

"Eh? Oh, nah. This was just a little something from Heppy. Some cup or other. I told her I'd get it appraised. Probably won't."

Tom wished more than anything that he could go back in time and kill himself before he'd ever started that conversation, and prayed he would never hear the word "Heppy" again.

There was a loud tapping at the front window. Burke was closest. He hobbled over to the door and let in a large barn owl that was clutching a small roll of parchment with the unmistakable Hogwarts seal upon it.

"That's for me," Tom said, grabbing the scroll before Burke had a chance to see it. He ripped it open hurriedly, and the first thing he noticed was a familiar curly script.

_Mr Riddle,_

_We would be delighted to have you interview for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Unfortunately, Headmaster Dippet has taken ill, so I will be handling all administrative matters in his stead. I trust this will not be an issue. Please join me at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning for your interview here at the school._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore  
Deputy Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Dumbledore.

Tom seethed with rage. His plan had involved the careful manipulation of an old, nearly senile wizard that had no regrets, one foot in the grave, and had always thought the best of him. It did not include a contingency for dealing with the only person at the school - or anywhere - that he could not manipulate.

He grabbed a quill, turned the parchment over, and wrote his reply.

_Dear Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_Thank you for your kind response. There is no need to trouble yourself, as I am sure you must be overwhelmed with responsibilities. I am more than happy to wait for Headmaster Dippet's return. Would next week be acceptable?_

_Regards,_

_Tom M. Riddle_

He rolled up the paper, considered putting a curse on it, decided against it, then gave it back to the owl.

Sometime later, the owl returned with Dumbledore's reply:

_Dear Mr Riddle,_

_No._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore  
Acting Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

* * *

The truth about the Dark Arts was that the entire concept was a farce.

The Dark Arts did not exist. The term was a black label to be affixed to any and every type of magic that did not adhere to the moral and legal standards of whatever government or society was casting judgment upon it. In other words, it was used to describe anything people feared, or didn't understand, or thought unsightly, or simply felt shouldn't be spoken of in polite company.

This, above all, was the message Tom wanted to teach to the children of Hogwarts. He wanted to engender a newfound respect for magical power and to encourage students to discard the idea of "Dark" and "evil" magic. And, if he happened to pull from each class the best, brightest, and boldest students to become followers – his own small army of hearts and minds – then all the better.

Also, his strategic plan required access to the castle. Two birds, as they say.

He kept these things in mind as he prepared for his interview, which could go any number of ways, he knew, given the fact that it was to be conducted by a man who was capable of turning intense dislike into a radiant smile and who flitted between philosophical rambling and complex magical theory with ease, often within the same sentence.

He rose early on Tuesday, as the last thing he wanted to be was late. It was as much a part of his carefully cultivated professional persona as his rampant perfectionism that he was rarely late for anything. And he held little regard for those who did not respect the sanctity of predetermined schedules.

That being said, apparating the entire length of Britain was not a pleasant experience, and he'd failed to calculate into his schedule the ten or twenty minutes of disorientation that came with such a long trip. So, when he arrived at Hogsmeade, he was forced to take the path to the castle slowly.

There was no doubt in his mind that Dumbledore could have arranged for floo travel. As disgusting as it was, it certainly had an element of expediency compared with the alternatives. But Dumbledore would probably have _preferred_ Tom to be a disheveled, disoriented interviewee, rather than a competent one.

The old caretaker met him at the door and ushered him inside. He was taken through the corridors and up the spiral staircase that led to Dippet's office. The caretaker was a man of few words, apparently, and Tom wondered if he might be a bit slow.

The man shut the door loudly behind him and Tom felt strangely trapped. He seemed to be alone. He meandered over to the large, ornate desk used by countless headmasters over the years and noticed that a small chair had been placed on the other side of it: his interrogation seat. He sat and waited.

And waited.

After about twenty minutes the door opened and Dumbledore strode in, casual as ever, as if he were fashionably early instead of offensively wasting his interviewee's time just to make a power play.

"Ah, Tom," he said, a pleasant and inherently mocking smile on his face. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."

Tom stood and they shook hands. It was awkward. Not "I hate you and you hate me" awkward, but more a sort of "let the games begin" awkward.

Dumbledore took a seat behind Dippet's desk and opened a folder containing several short pieces of parchment. He reviewed the contents slowly while Tom sat in unbearable silence. Finally, after reading the entirety of the folder, Dumbledore removed his glasses and peered across the desk at Tom like an underweight, judgmental Father Christmas.

"I see you've added a considerable amount of experience to your resumé since it was last submitted," he said.

"Yes, sir, I've held the same position for five years." _Since you ruined my chances of coming here the first time_ , he thought to himself.

"And did you find your time there useful?"

"Useful?"

"Useful," Dumbledore repeated.

Tom knew what he meant but pretended he didn't. "Well, sir, I found it educational."

Silence.

After a while Dumbledore said, "And you've continued to submit frequent articles to respected research journals, as well."

"I thought it best to remain active in the academic community." Those articles, in addition to regular nefarious planning sessions with his associates, were the only things that kept him sane while he worked for a pittance seven days a week.

"And what about your other activities outside of Borgin and Burke's?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes boring into Tom's skull - trying, he knew, to see into his mind through sheer force of will.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir." _I know exactly what you mean, and you better not_ -

"I have it on good authority that you have been associating with individuals of questionable notoriety. You must understand, Tom, that as a teacher at this school you will be working with children. I cannot hire anyone until I am sure that doing so does not compromise their safety in any way."

He knew, of course, that Dumbledore had been tracking his movements ever since he had left Hogwarts, perhaps even before that. But try as he might, he was never able to figure out how the old man managed to do it, or who was working for him.

At any rate, Dumbledore could not be charmed, manipulated, or intimidated. Logic was the appropriate weapon of choice. Thus, Tom decided to use logic to full effect.

"Sir," he said, measuring his words carefully, "my acquaintances and I have never been accused of any impropriety or criminal activity that I am aware of. If we are all to be judged solely on the basis of the reputations others assign to us - over which we have little control - then I'm afraid you will be hard-pressed to find anyone saintly enough to fill this position."

It was a bold statement. A calculated risk, especially for a job interview. Dumbledore sat back in his chair, his face unreadable.

Tom did not look away. No matter how correct Dumbledore was to suspect him, the argument he'd presented was too solid to refute.

Regardless, he began to run through contingency plans in his head, including (but not limited to) killing Dumbledore then and there, and/or cursing the entire staff on his way out.

Well, they weren't contingency plans so much as tantrums. But he was ready.

"You're right," Dumbledore said after a long, awkward silence.

"Sorry?" The word tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"You're right. And well said. I'm most unlikely to find anyone as _knowledgeable_ on the subject as you are, anyway. Who am I to deny the students here the best education available?"

Tom was a brilliant strategist, but even he could not discern what could have motivated Dumbledore to accept his argument so willingly.

"Welcome aboard, Professor," Dumbledore said, standing and holding out his hand. There was a smile on his face - a _Dumbledore_ smile: a duplicitous, foreboding smirk that Tom did not like at all.

They shook on it.


	2. Administrative Matters

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I simply cannot offer you any more than market value for used infertility amulets."

"The fact that they're used means they work!"

The shop was unusually busy, and Tom had been left to man the counter after Borgin had conveniently disappeared.

The absolute worst part of the job was having to deal with customers. They were dim, impatient swindlers who were consistently certain that whatever they were offering for sale or trade was of top quality, while also insisting that every purchase they wanted to make was ridiculously overpriced.

"Three Sickles is the best I can do, ma'am," he muttered to the short, elderly woman on the other side of the counter. She looked at him as if he were a misbehaving child that had just told a lie.

"Nonsense. I'll go to Shyverwretch's!" she threatened. "They're offering a full Galleon each!"

Shyverwretch's didn't even sell Dark objects. They sold poisons.

He pushed the disgusting amulets back across the counter, thinking that if it hadn't been his last day, and he'd had to come back to this hellish job in the morning, he might have killed her then and there. "By all means, then. Go to Shyverwretch's," he said.

The woman blinked stupidly. "Well- I mean- quite inconvenient..."

He shrugged.

"Unbelievable. What a bloody- fine. I'll take the Sickles."

"Very well, ma'am."

There were five more people in line and Tom wished them all gruesome deaths.

When Borgin finally appeared, he did not look at all like he was of any mindset to help. "Sir," Tom called, "I have something I need to discuss with you."

"Eh? Sorry, Tom. Bit busy at the moment."

He shuffled into the back room for a minute, shuffled out, then headed back up the stairs to his flat, completely unfazed by the chaos on the shop floor.

"Busy being useless," Tom muttered under his breath, turning back to the next customer.

"I need eighteen Peruvian shrunken heads," said a young, dark-haired woman in an American accent. "Crushed, if you have them. Though I'll take powdered as well."

There was no legitimate use for shrunken heads at all, let alone "crushed" shrunken heads.

"Sorry, we only have three. And they're from the Caucasus Region."

She sounded impatient. "Fine, I'll take all three."

He retrieved the heads from the floor and began to wrap her purchase while she watched him, tapping her foot.

"Good lord," she said after a minute, "could you go any slower?"

"I could..." he muttered.

But she didn't hear him. "You would think the world's greatest former colonial power would have at least _reasonable_ access to global foodstuffs, considering how many countries they've ransacked."

"Foodstuffs?"

She yanked the package out of his hands, slammed her money on the counter, and hurried out of the shop. "I hate Europe," she declared on her way out.

He watched her go, wondering what on earth powdered shrunken head could possibly be used for.

"I need a book on necromancy," said the next customer. "But I don't want to reanimate whole bodies. Just... parts. So, if there's a book on that..."

He would never know, for _years_ afterward, how he had managed to get through that last day. When it was finally over, he didn't even bother to find Borgin again to discuss his resignation. He just left the letter on the counter, opened up a massive, writhing box of eldritch books, let them loose on the back room, and made sure to steal a few choice items he'd been eyeing before leaving out the back door for the last time.

* * *

Tom's flat had never been particularly glamorous. In fact, it was one exposed beam away from being a hovel. But what it lacked in comfort it made up for in convenience. Its proximity to the Alley made life much easier, even though he was consistently updated on the turbulent relationship of the couple next door through the paper-thin walls that seemed to be mysteriously impervious to magic.

He would not miss Nancy and Clarence and their intimacy issues.

He'd always promised himself he would charm or hex his way into much nicer accommodations, but never seemed to find the time. And so he was stuck with Rollo.

Rollo was the landlord. He was a short, balding idiot who wasn't a wizard so much as a man who happened to have a wand, and the only good thing about him was that he was easy to curse.

At least, it _was_ a good thing, until Tom tried to move out.

"Lookin' to move in?" he asked when Tom met him at the dingy little desk on the first floor.

"No, I'm moving out."

"Eh?" He looked at Tom as if he'd never seen him before. "If you say so. Name?"

"Riddle."

He started to rummage through a filing cabinet by hand, his wand sitting unused on a table in the corner of the room. He might as well have been a Muggle. After several unpleasant minutes he pulled out a folder, set it on the desk, and then looked up at Tom again. "Date leaving?" he asked.

"September first, I suppose. But I should like to return in the summer."

"Why?"

"Because I am a teacher." It was the first time he'd said it, and had he been anyone else, he might have felt excited about that. "I do not work in the summer. I will need a place to stay, and I would like to stay in London."

This was beyond Rollo's ability to process, apparently. "I can't hold the unit unless you pay through the year."

Tom was silent for a moment, likely appearing to the landlord as if he were considering the option. What he was actually doing was imagining Rollo's slow, torturous disembowelment. He sighed longingly.

But Rollo had looked away, and when he turned to face Tom again, his face was blank.

"You movin' in?" he asked again.

"No, I- I _just_ said I'll be moving out. And I've been here for five years. How do you not recog-"

He stopped himself, remembering with annoyance that he'd used the Imperius Curse on the man so many times that he hadn't had to pay proper rent in months. He also, apparently, had quite possibly addled Rollo's brain. This would be difficult.

 _I will not curse him again,_ he told himself.

"I'm moving out. Is there something I have to sign?"

Rollo rummaged through a different filing cabinet and pulled out a form. "Fill this out," he said.

Tom hastily completed the form and handed it back to Rollo, whose face had once again gone blank.

Rollo smiled. "Moving i-"

"NO I AM NOT MOVING IN!" Tom yelled.

Rollo stared at him with a slightly confused expression on his stupid face.

_I will NOT curse him again._

"Take this form," he said, "file it away, and I will have the flat empty by the first."

Rollo nodded his head. Then he looked down at the paper. "But this is a moving-out form. You need a moving-in for-"

" _Imperio_."

* * *

He had told them to come alone, stagger their arrivals, apparate into opposite ends of the Alley to avoid being noticed, and to assemble in the Leaky Cauldron by midnight.

They showed up side by side, staggeringly drunk, twenty two minutes late, two pubs away. Avery was singing.

Tom had a difficult time hiding his displeasure. In other words, he didn't.

"Are you complete idiots?" he hissed from the corner, beckoning them to his table when they finally wandered in, gabbing boisterously like they'd just come from a football match. Not that they knew what football was. "I thought I told you-"

"Sorry, Lord," Rosier slurred.

"Lord," Avery repeated.

"Loooooord," Rosier countered.

"Lo-"

"DO YOU MIND?" Tom shouted, attracting the attention of half the pub in the process.

They fell silent, though Tom suspected in Avery's case it was just to keep himself from vomiting.

"Sit down, you fools. I have news."

"If this is about the Giant fiasco..." Rosier began.

"No, this has nothing to do with- wait, _what_ Giant fiasco?"

Rosier stared at him, either terrified of his potential wrath or drifting into a drunken stupor. He couldn't tell.

"Never mind," he muttered. "I will be gone for the foreseeable future. I have been offered," he used the term loosely, "a position as a professor, and I'm going to take it."

"I'm sorry?" Avery chimed in.

"I said I'm going to teach. At Hogwarts. For a while, anyway."

"Teach?"

He looked from one face to the other. They seemed bewildered.

"Is that a problem?" he asked in a tone of warning. There was no way he would accept having his actions criticized by a bunch of spoiled, barely intelligent, old money legacies that were more suited to the smoking club at Cambridge than the Dark Arts underground, even if they _were_ his closest friends.

"No- no problem," Rosier stuttered. After a moment's pause he added, "children?"

"What?"

"You're going to teach... children?"

"Obviously."

They both sat there in silence, looking as if they could not imagine the possibility of a universe existing in which Tom Riddle was anything remotely like any semblance of a professor.

" _What_?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

"Anyway, in my absence I will require you to advance the plan as much as possible and take on the responsibilities to which I will not have time to attend."

Rosier blinked, trying and failing to understand the grammar of that last sentence. "Look, Tom," he explained, "it's going to be fine. Have we ever failed you before?"

Tom looked at him pointedly.

"Recently?" he specified.

Avery grunted, half asleep.

Tom got out his wand. The silent hex he sent from under the table jolted them both to attention, and they were considerably more respectful once they realized the threat.

He spent the next half hour assigning them tasks and messages to pass on to the rest of their "associates." Whether or not they would remember any of it the next day was anyone's guess.

* * *

When Tom returned to his flat in the early hours of the morning, an owl was waiting for him at the window. It carried a large, heavy roll of parchment, sealed on the outside with the Hogwarts crest. He broke the seal and felt the tiniest bit of excitement, which he quickly stifled.

_Professor Riddle,_

_Please find enclosed your pre-term paperwork package, to be completed before the start of Week 1. All lesson plans must be outlined for the term before 27th August. The paper is enchanted to provide a gentle reminder if it is not completed by this date._

_Also enclosed is a list of unapproved subjects pertaining to the Dark Arts. These topics are not to be included in any lesson, discussion, or reading at any level. Please sign at the bottom of the list to acknowledge that you have read, understand, and agree to these terms._

_Wishing you a wonderful and productive school year,_

_Headmaster Armando Dippet_

He had no doubt that the "list of unapproved subjects" was specially curated for him by Dumbledore, who likely assumed he needed the extra policing, as if he was going to begin day one with "how to make a Horcrux."

So, he decided that he would sign the form, then endeavor to faithfully include every single bloody topic on that list _somewhere_ in his classes.

The other forms were self-explanatory but tedious. He threw them down on the desk and rubbed his forehead in frustration, realizing with annoyance that it was already the twenty-sixth.

What he had pictured in his head when he'd first thought of teaching were long, sweeping orations, students hanging on his every word, young minds being taken in and inspired by his message.

What he did not fully consider, however, was that he would actually have to _teach_.

Properly teach. As a job. A _full-time_ job.

Was access to the castle worth this amount of misery? Was the cultivation of young minds worth the time he would be required to spend actually talking to the owners of those minds? To... _children_?

Tom hated children as a general concept. He also hated them specifically. They might be the future of society, but they were also expensive, ignorant little parasites. Their only redeeming quality was that they were impressionable - at least, he hoped they were. As an adult he'd only ever spent a few minutes with one, and that was when a woman pushing a pram walked into the shop and demanded he keep an eye on the thing while she talked to his bosses.

It had stared at him. Not in a "you're interesting" or "you're funny" sort of way. Just an emotionless, wide-eyed stare, like an animal trying to camouflage itself from predators by not moving.

He had looked into the baby's mind, curious to find out what it might have been thinking about, but all he'd seen was his own face staring back at him, looking confused, like he was the subject in a Surrealist painting.

Turning back to the matter at hand, he read over one of the long pieces of parchment Dippet had sent that explained class schedules. The paper contained a grid that depicted the class lineup, into which he was supposed to write topics by course level. There was a parchment with another grid to outline exams, and several other administrative forms, including an "Acknowledgement of Heightened Risk of Accidental Death and Dismemberment" and a "Waiver of Right to Sue in Cases of Accidental Death and Dismemberment."

Raising an army and storming the castle by force would have been less tedious.

In addition to the requirement of teaching, he had failed to consider something else: the sheer _volume_ of work involved. Defense Against the Dark Arts was a mandatory class for years one through five, meaning that, if every house had a separate class, he'd have at least twenty classes per week. Even if they were doubled up, that was still ten, and at least fourteen separate midterms and final exams to come up with.

Years six and seven were considered "advanced," which he would need to discern the meaning of at some point, but luckily there was only one class per year for all houses.

He sighed and sat back in his chair, looking out the window and wondering vaguely if there was a spell that would do all this work for him. Probably not, because that would have been terribly convenient, and there was an unwritten universal law that magic was useful and convenient in every respect except when it came to administrative paperwork. Bureaucracy was some kind of dark anti-magic over which no one had power.

He watched the sun rising, and for a brief moment he thought he saw a tiny house elf flying through the Alley and off into the horizon on a broomstick. That was the point at which he figured he must be getting tired.

He remembered his own classes at school, in which Merrythought had divided the course into spells, potions, objects, and creatures, as if it were a dumping ground for anything the other professors didn't feel like teaching.

But Tom's class was _not_ going to be a Potions class. Nor was it going to be Care of Magical Creatures.

He perused Dumbledore's list and noticed with annoyance that every useful and interesting topic, along with every book he'd hoped to use, was on it.

_Staff,_

_All teachers must note that the below subjects are not approved for teaching, research, or discussion at Hogwarts. Any evidence of incorporation of the below topics or texts in any classroom setting will result in immediate disciplinary action._

_A list of banned topics follows:_

_Blood Magic  
Class 5 Major Poisons  
Cursing of Objects  
Demonology  
Esoteric/Mystical Practices  
Necromancy  
Object Sentience  
Prejudicial Spells and Rituals  
Religion  
Unforgivable Curses (use of)*  
*Unforgivable Curses (defense against) acceptable_

_The approved texts for this year are as follows:_

_Defense Against the Dark Arts by Galatea Merrythought  
Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts by Galatea Merrythought  
The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts by Arsenius Jigger (supplemental)_

The Hogwarts letters had already gone out to students nearly a month ago, so he would have to live with those texts until he had a chance to phase them out. Having been taught by Merrythought himself, he knew they were likely devoid of any content he would deem useful. But he could understand the impulse to assign one's own books to a school full of students that would be forced to buy them.

_Unapproved Texts:_

_Curses and Counter-Curses by Vindictus Viridian (encourages practice)_   
_Magick Moste Evile by Godelot (dangerous, encourages practice)_   
_Malleus Maleficarum by Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger (unverified sources cited)_   
_Mathematical Foundations of Quantum Mechanics by John von Neumann (questionable theory)_   
_Memory Mechanics and Manipulation in Magic by Joyce Pritchard (dangerous)_   
_Secrets of the Darkest Art by Owle Bullock (dangerous, encourages practice)_   
_The Bible by Various (unverified sources cited)_   
_The Study of Time by Ibrahim Dhakar (dangerous)_   
_Ymchwil ar Eneidiau (A Study of Souls) by Carys Wynne (dangerous)_

Dumbledore had done his research. Though, why he worried that Tom might use the Bible in his classes was a mystery.

He decided to replicate Merrythought's model on paper and insert alternate content in practice, here and there, slowly at first, so that before anyone noticed that he was deviating from his original lesson plan, the year would be over.

It took him all day to finalize his submission, and by midnight he had cobbled together a rudimentary exam schedule as well, hoping it would at least pass as acceptable. Relieved that it was finally over, he threw the stack of papers down and sat back in his chair.

And then his desk exploded.


	3. Who the Hell is Winston Churchill?

The "gentle reminder" Dippet had put on the paperwork apparently came in the form of a localized explosion.

Luckily, the finished lesson plans weren't too badly damaged, and Tom was able to send them off just before sunrise. He didn't bother fixing his desk, which now existed as a smoldering pile of ash and splinters on the floor.

Not one fraction of a second after he'd finally collapsed onto his bed, there was a tapping at the window. He ignored it.

_Tap tap tap._

He covered his ears.

_Tap tap tap._

He put a pillow over his head.

_BANG BANG._

The owl was astoundingly impatient and had started throwing itself at the glass in fierce determination. He opened the window, shot the owl a nasty look, which it returned in kind, and took the small scroll from its foot. It hooted its indignation as it left.

There were very few things that Tom was convinced Muggles did better than wizards (because he hated Muggles and thought their general existence was objectively useless), and one of those things was long distance communication. They had a device that could transfer messages across oceans at incredible speed and with impressive efficiency, yet wizards were stuck having to wipe bird droppings off of every single correspondence they sent.

 _Dear Professor Riddle,_ he read.

_Please advise when you would like to complete your relocation to Hogwarts Castle. I suggest doing so no later than 27th August to allow ample time to acclimate and prepare for the term._

_Albus Dumbledore  
Deputy Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Today was the 27th. Dumbledore had sent the letter today. Why couldn't he just bloody say "today?"

Tom looked around at his still-smoldering flat. There would be no sleeping, apparently.

* * *

"I hope this will suffice," said Dumbledore, showing Tom into an enormous set of rooms that sat somewhere between Gryffindor Tower and the third-floor corridor. There was a massive living area, a bedroom with a fireplace, and a bathroom infinitely nicer than anything he had ever used. His new office had two doors: one accessible from inside the flat, and one that opened to the corridor for students to use.

The floor-to-ceiling windows on the east wall flooded the place with bright sunlight as if God Himself were laying down his approval, and Tom turned to Dumbledore with a poorly hidden look of suspicion on his face. "Were these Merrythought's quarters?" he asked.

"Hm? No, they've been vacant for a while now. The last resident didn't care for them for some reason."

There it was. He assumed he would discover that reason at some point, but for now, his very poor twenty-three-year-old self was content with accepting the offer. "This will be fine," he said, trying to hide his excitement about no longer having to live in a building that looked like no one had touched it since it had been bombed in the War. Which it hadn't.

"Excellent. I shall see you at the pre-term staff meeting tomorrow morning at eight. If you should need anything, do not hesitate to find me." He smiled benignly and left.

Tom took his time exploring the rooms, rearranging things and finding places to store his massive collection of banned books. The last resident had apparently been partial to the color yellow because the floor, the curtains, and the bedding looked as if someone had violently vomited lemons all over them. He changed everything, predictably, to a suitably dark shade of green.

By evening he had everything just the way he wanted it, which had taken a while owing to his incessant perfectionism. As a final step, he set his copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ conspicuously on his new desk (so that if Dumbledore ever came into the office, he'd be sufficiently offended), and considered the job done.

After two sleepless nights he was finally, mercifully, able to go to bed.

_Tap tap tap._

_Tap tap._

He swore loudly and made his way toward the giant windows in the living room, where a small, disheveled-looking owl of some sort was bobbing up and down on the other side of the glass.

"I hate you," he said to the owl when it flew in and promptly made a mess on the window sill, then proceeded to try and bite him every time he reached for the paper tied to its foot.

He unfolded a hastily scribbled note that had some sort of stain on it and smelled strongly of cigarettes.

_Lestrange is back. Wants a word. Says he has news. How's school?_   
_-R_

The one single thing he was _absolutely_ certain he had made clear to Avery and Rosier was that they should never contact him while he was at Hogwarts.

 _Lestrange can wait_ , he wrote back. _If you contact me here again, I will kill you both._

He put a curse on the paper for good measure.

* * *

On his way to the staff meeting the next morning Tom ran into Horace Slughorn, who was milling around near a corner and fiddling with a small vial.

"Tom, my dear boy! How nice to see you!" he said, stashing the vial in a pocket and shaking Tom's hand enthusiastically.

"It's good to see you, sir," said Tom, and he meant it.

"I thought you'd be a Deputy Minister by now! Couldn't pass up the chance to influence the younger generations, eh?"

"That's the goal, sir."

"I must say, I was quite concerned when I heard you'd turned down all those job offers. Borgin and Burke's? I do hope they treated you well."

For one satisfying moment he wondered how well Borgin and Burke were getting on with the mess he'd left them. "It was fine, sir."

"Oh, do call me Horace. We're colleagues now, after all," Slughorn told him with a smile.

But because he knew the man so well, Tom could tell that Slughorn was a bit disappointed. No doubt he had hoped that his best student would rise quickly up the ranks of _some_ prestigious, financially impressive place or other that he could brag about.

They walked into the staff room together. Tom had never been in here before; it was one of the few corners of Hogwarts he hadn't managed to penetrate before he graduated, not that there had ever been any need for it. Despite being on the first floor of a medieval castle, it slightly resembled the inside of a Muggle office, with mismatched furniture, a faux-wood table that was at least twenty years old, and a modern-ish kitchenette.

The other professors were huddled in groups, he noticed, occupying different parts of the room.

There was the old guard (decrepit, crotchety men long past retirement age but too stuck in their routine to do anything about it, and angry at everyone else for their poor life choices); the failed researchers (split between former adventurers who looked like they'd just gotten back from wrangling Antipodean Opaleyes in Australia, and bookish scholars who probably thought their stint at Hogwarts would be temporary until their big scientific breakthrough); the young ones (full of hopes and dreams for the country's youth, painfully naïve and idealistic); and one dead guy.

The ghost of Cuthbert Binns sat - or, rather, hovered - in the middle of the sofa in front of the fire, making the two old men on either side of him extremely uncomfortable and not caring one damn bit about it. Tom had never disliked Binns. History of Magic was so useless, and Binns so unobservant, that he had gotten a lot of personal work done during the two hours he'd spend in that class each week.

In the kitchen sat the youngest of the teachers, Minerva McGonagall, who had graduated a few years before him. He only recognized McGonagall because she had made it her goal in life to rat out as many Slytherins as she could during her seventh year as a Gryffindor Head Girl, himself included. She was seated with two other young female teachers, and he decided to join them.

The women introduced themselves as Ilania and Peggy, Astronomy and Arithmancy, respectively. Tom did not bother to commit the names to memory.

"And that's Minerva," said Astronomy, gesturing toward McGonagall and frowning slightly. "She teaches Transfiguration under Dumbledore. Minerva, this is Tom."

Minerva had been staring at Tom as if surprised to see him while trying not to seem surprised at the same time. Her eyes narrowed. "I am familiar," she stated.

Sometimes, when the universe aligned in the right way, or chance or fate had willed it, or he just felt like being an arsehole, Tom gave himself a challenge. And at that moment he decided to challenge himself to get Minerva McGonagall to like him. Not because he cared, of course, but because he knew how ridiculously annoyed with herself she would be if she was ever taken in by the charms of a Slytherin. And anyway, it would be helpful to have an ally that was also Dumbledore-adjacent.

"Nice to see you again, Minerva," he said quietly and with a carefully placed smirk. Could have been sarcasm. Could have been flirting. She would have to figure it out.

"Riddle," she muttered, emotionless.

He gazed around the room and was surprised how many faces there were that he didn't know. "Who is that?" he asked Astronomy, pointing to a vaguely familiar rotund man near the fire.

"Oh," she said, blushing, "that's Beery. Herbology."

 _That_ was why Tom didn't recognize him. He had gotten special dispensation to skip out on the intellectual black hole that was Herbology after his second year, thanks in no short order to Dippet, and had barely ever spoken to Beery.

"And that's Grayson and Tyre with Binns," Astronomy continued. "Grayson teaches Ancient Runes, even though he hates it. Tyre is Charms. He's had those horns for a while now. And, let's see..." She pointed to a harsh-looking woman and a tall man near the window who were talking animatedly. "That's Carson, Sports, and Fogg, Muggle Studies."

She stopped when Dippet came in and called for attention.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he said in a weak voice, looking particularly decrepit. "I trust everyone had a productive summer. A few start-of-term notices, if I may." He pulled out a small piece of parchment and squinted at it.

"Firstly, Professor Kettleburn will not be joining us this term, I'm afraid."

"Suspension again?" asked Tyre.

Dippet gave a knowing look. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"What'd he do this time, the smarmy bastard? Blow something up?"

Dippet ignored this and continued. "Now, as we all know, Professor Merrythought officially retired at the end of last term-"

"Finally," said Beery. "She'd only been threatening it for seven years." Some of the other teachers chuckled.

"Anyway," Dippet sighed, "the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taken by Mister Riddle."

He gestured toward Tom, who was not expecting to be singled out, though he realized he should have anticipated it. He stood and gave a small smile.

There was silence.

"How old are you?" Grayson barked loudly, causing several other people to groan.

The woman named Carson clicked her tongue. "What the hell does that matter, Grayson?"

Despite her comment, most of the room was staring at Tom, expecting him to answer and satiate their curiosity.

The two women beside him seemed especially curious.

"Twenty-three, sir," he said, looking directly at Grayson with determined confidence.

Slight muttering in the crowd.

"Lord, Dippet," Grayson exclaimed, "they get younger every year."

Minerva frowned and looked down at her hands, and Tom wondered if she'd had to endure the same abuse at her first staff meeting.

Slughorn rose from his armchair in the corner. "Now Grayson, I happen to know Mister Riddle quite well, and he is one of the best graduates this school has ever produced."

Tom felt a surge of appreciation for Slughorn.

Grayson scoffed. "Produced when? Last year?"

"He said he was twenty-three, old man. Twenty-three is not eighteen. You should-"

"I think you will find," came the last voice Tom expected to hear, "that Mister Riddle is more than up to the task." Dumbledore nodded politely at him. "I am absolutely sure that Tom will not disappoint us. Isn't that right, Tom?"

Was that a threat? "Of course, sir," he responded, trying to prevent his already weak polite smile from faltering. He had no need for Dumbledore's endorsement. An old codger like Grayson didn't scare him in the least.

The Deputy Headmaster's suspicious support was far more worrying.

"May I continue?" Dippet inquired sarcastically to Grayson, who waved his hand at them all in old man frustration.

"Ahem. Please note that we are still having trouble removing that horribly defaced portrait of Winston Churchill on the fifth floor. Whatever charm the students used last year was quite effective."

A few people looked at Tyre. "Still working on it, sir," he mumbled.

"Very well. Now-"

"Who the bloody hell is Winston Churchill?" Slughorn demanded.

Fogg took offense to that and made a loud "tsk" sound at Slughorn.

" _Now_ ," Dippet continued, "as usual, the Ministry will be conducting inspections in November, so please be prepared to accommodate them."

"I still don't understand the point of that," interjected Slughorn. "I taught for fifteen years without an inspection, and all the sudden-"

"If you remember correctly, _Professor_ ," Fogg said angrily, "a student _died_ several years ago. A Muggleborn, of course, as if they don't have enough to worry about, the poor things. We've been on the watch list since then."

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The meeting went on for another hour, during which Astronomy stared longingly at Tom, Grayson yelled at everyone who spoke, and Dumbledore just stood there quietly, observing the crowd with mild interest and making Tom increasingly paranoid about whatever nefarious deeds he was probably planning.

* * *

The old dining table in the staff room looked like it was painted by someone who had never seen actual wood but had vaguely heard about it through word of mouth. Tom stared at it, in a daze, wondering if he could catch it on fire using only his mind.

"The children will arrive tonight," said Astronomy, who had taken to following him around any time he wasn't in his quarters, and was now sitting beside him, eating her lunch and droning on about the Start of Term Feast, "probably around seven."

He responded with a halfhearted "hm."

"Then the Sorting, then dinner, of course."

For some unfathomable reason he felt nervous about the whole first day thing, and being nervous made him irritable. "Yes," he mumbled, "I'm aware of how the first night tends to go at Hogwarts, Astronomy."

She looked confused. "What did you call me?"

"Ilania, obviously," he muttered, hoping that was right.

At that moment, a strangely familiar voice sounded from the corridor. "Well, it's not illegal in South America, is it? Absolutely ridiculous."

Seconds later Slughorn walked in with - to Tom's surprise - the woman from the shop that had asked for crushed shrunken head. "I'm aware of that, Miss Fowler," Slughorn explained, "but as you know, your tenure comes out of Ilvermorny, and America has banned the use. Not much I can do, I'm afraid."

"Who is that?" Tom asked Ilania.

She gave him a sinister look. "That's Cornelia Fowler, from America. Potions understudy. Been traveling to different schools trying to learn about Potions education, but word has it she's up to... something else."

"'Something else?'"

Ilania nodded grimly. "Something else."

He tried not to lose his patience. " _Like what_?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's just a thing people say, you know..."

He looked down at the table again.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by because, naturally, when you wanted to push something off, time had a funny way of speeding up.

By seven-thirty the students had arrived and were packing into the Great Hall. Tom sat near the middle of the long teachers' table in the front, stuck between Minerva and Ilania, pretending his nervousness didn't exist by thinking about all the historical relics he might find now that he had access to the castle.

Maybe he'd take the Sorting Hat. It had belonged to Gryffindor, hadn't it? Though, it probably wasn't a good idea to perform Dark rituals on an already sentient object that contained a thousand years of Founders' wisdom and could yell at him the whole time about how stupid he was for attempting such a thing.

Then the crowd was going silent, and then the first years were coming through, and Beery was putting the Sorting Hat on a stool, and everything was happening very fast-

-until the Sorting Hat began to sing.

_Some enchanted evening  
You may see a stranger  
You may see a stranger  
Across a crowded room_

_And somehow you know  
You know even then  
That somewhere you'll see her  
Again and again._

"Oh no, not again," Minerva muttered.

_Some enchanted evening  
Someone may be laughin'_

"What is happening?" Tom asked her.

_You may hear her laughin'  
Across a crowded room  
And night after night  
As strange as it seems_

"Beery's been listening to his records again," she explained, as if that didn't bring up a host of other questions.

_The sound of her laughter  
Will sing in your dreams._

_Who can explain it?  
Who can tell you why?  
Fools give you reasons  
Wise men never try._

_Some enchanted evening_   
_When you find your true love_   
_When…_

When the song had finally finished, the students were mumbling in confusion, and Dippet was giving Beery an angry look and shaking his head.

Then everything sped up again, and the Sorting was over, and Dippet was starting his speech, and then there was food.

Tom decided to put his focus toward something else to get his mind off the nervousness he was most definitely not feeling at all.

"So, Minerva," he said, all charm, "I read your most recent article in _Transfiguration Today_. Quite clever."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "Why?"

"I'm sorry?"

" _Why_?"

"Why did I read it?"

"No. Why is it 'clever?'"

"I just meant-"

"It's funny, isn't it? How a man can submit a scientific article to a reputable journal and it's a completely normal thing, regardless of the quality of the content, but when a woman does it, it's surprisingly 'clever,' and even then, only if it's able to surpass the highest quality male submissions."

"Er-"

"Indeed," Ilania joined in. "You know, I tried to submit a study on calculating the distance between galaxies and the impact black holes have on the speed with which they travel through space, and I was rejected by _Space and Element_? Apparently, my research wasn't 'directly relevant to expanding wizardkind's knowledge of the immediate solar system,' even though some decrepit researcher at Oxford got his ridiculous paper about Alpha Centauri into the same bloody edition."

Tom felt very uncomfortable.

"I- I just meant," he muttered to Minerva, "I thought it was clever how you compared organic and inorganic molecular transfiguration methods and found that they require vastly different applications of spell work."

"Oh," she said, blushing slightly.

Slughorn, ever helpful, chose that moment to visit, and Tom stood up to greet him, thankful for the excuse to flee the conversation he'd gotten himself stuck in.

"Professor Riddle!" he said congenially, patting Tom on the shoulder. "Enjoying your first day?"

"Yes, sir- er, Horace."

"Ha! Good to know you're getting acclimated. By the way," he glanced over at Dumbledore and Dippet, then leaned in close and whispered, "I'm thinking about resurrecting the Slug Club again, only for my best students, you know, and I would love for you to join us. As an alumnus?"

"Oh. I'd be delighted."

"Excellent! Keep it between us, though. Dumbledore doesn't like when I single students out."

Tom was suddenly very motivated to help Horace resurrect the Slug Club. "Understood," he said.


	4. DADA is a Dish

The first of September was on a Friday, which meant that the teachers got a rare weekend break before classes started.

But because Tom had failed to realize that visual aids were considered a necessary tool for teaching, he ended up spending the entire weekend in the library.

Ilania had pointed this out to him in that annoying way she tended to do: by hiding incredibly helpful pearls of wisdom between her incessant gossiping and her complaints about other teachers, so that he was forced to listen to almost everything she said just to get anything useful out of her.

He had briefly attempted Legilimency to avoid having to talk to her at all, but in the four seconds he'd spent inside her head, all he'd seen were an unreasonable amount of differential equations, which was a mystery that would require its own investigation at some point.

"Why would they need visual aids?" he had asked rather stupidly. "Would the texts not provide those?"

"Teaching new and unfamiliar topics to children becomes much easier with pictures," Ilania explained. "Trust me. They have no attention span when it comes to reading."

Thus Saturday was spent perusing the library's familiar Dark Magic collections, looking for suitable images to replicate and trying to find a happy medium between "only slightly gruesome" and "nauseatingly disgusting" (and tending to favor the latter – the goal was to keep them interested, wasn't it?).

During his fourth trip, as he waded deep into the dusty stacks of the Restricted Section, a voice that was guaranteed to make his day worse called out from behind him.

"I noticed you did not include the Boggart in your lesson plan."

He turned around to see Dumbledore standing at the end of the aisle, a large pile of papers hovering beside him, the look on his face pleasant and friendly and generally annoying.

"I'm sorry?"

"I noticed you did not include the Boggart in your lesson plan," Dumbledore repeated.

"No, sir," Tom said quietly. "As they're magical creatures, I assumed they would be covered in more appropriate classes, like Care of _Magical... Creatures.._."

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, I'm afraid I must disagree with you, Tom. The Boggart may not be human, but it is certainly not a beast, either. And as they are common in Britain, and their effects Dark in nature, they are perhaps best covered in a class that focuses on defense against such things, like _Defense..._ Against the _Dark..._ Arts."

He knew perfectly well that Dumbledore was right, of course. The Boggart was a non-being. But one of his worst memories of Hogwarts was of the day he was forced to face a Boggart in class, in front of everyone, and then deal with the whispers and conversation surrounding him afterwards as his classmates tried to interpret what the hell it was they had seen.

Because apparently, at the time, no one at Hogwarts knew what an exploding bomb looked like.

"How-silly-of-me," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I shall rectify the situation, sir."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said politely, nodding his head and strolling off, his stack of papers floating behind him like a loyal but haphazard personal assistant.

But that was not the only criticism Tom's apparent Content Parole Officer intended to make, as it turned out.

"Are you partial to the subject of temporal physics?" Dumbledore had asked after cornering him in the library for a second time that evening.

He was sitting at a table that was covered in books and papers, trying to maintain some modicum of composure despite his growing frustration, and it would have been clear to absolutely anyone else that he was far too busy to talk.

"What?"

"You moved the topic into the sixth-year curriculum. Typically it is taught in the seventh year. If you have a particularly inventive and innovative method of teaching it that sixth years who have not yet learned about elementary transfigurational physics would be able to understand, then I commend you. Do you have such a method?"

Tom sighed, calculating in his mind the logistics of throwing the Killing Curse at Dumbledore in the middle of the library, murdering any witnesses, hiding the bodies, and returning in time to finish his visual aids.

"Probably not," he said.

"Ah, I see. In that case-"

"I'll fix it."

Dumbledore gave a satisfied smile – at his own cleverness, most likely – and disappeared in his usual foreboding, needlessly whimsical fashion.

In the end Tom decided to acquiesce to Dumbledore's requests because, for every approved topic he would be forced to teach, he had three or four banned ones with which to supplement it.

* * *

Sunday evening came far too quickly for Tom's liking, and once again he found himself somewhat nervous.

To make things worse, Arithmancy - whose name was Peggy, he now knew, despite being determined not to learn anyone's name who wasn't useful to him - ruined his dinner by casually mentioning to him that he would also be required to oversee study halls periodically.

"Why was I not told this?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Peggy said with a shrug. "It was all explained to me on my first day. At orientation."

"Orientation? You had an orientation?"

"You _didn't_?"

He was livid. "What do I have to do for this ridiculous, useless study hall requirement?"

"It's simple," she explained, "just check the schedule in the staff room. It will tell you when you are required to be there and where it's being held. But, well…"

"But?"

"I should warn you… New teachers are usually expected to take on most of the study halls."

Ten minutes later, after abandoning his food and storming through the castle in a poorly contained rage, he was staring at the study hall schedule in the staff room.

Predictably, the first three weeks had his name beside them. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he would be required to take two extra hours out of his day to sit in some random classroom and make sure children were doing what they should have been doing in the first place but were apparently too incompetent to be trusted with.

And somehow, despite his best efforts and the confused faces of the other teachers in the room, he could not light the schedule on fire, curse it, or explode it out of existence.

"What're ya doin' there, son?" Tyre asked from the couch by the fire.

"Trying to destroy the study hall schedule."

Tyre nodded. "Aye, we've all been there."

* * *

It became apparent by Monday morning that Tom would receive no orientation of any kind. He felt like he was being thrown into the middle of the ocean and told to swim to the nearest continent. He supposed that, at the bare minimum, if he managed to keep all his students alive then it would probably be considered a successful year.

He had no idea just how lofty that goal really was.

Unsurprisingly, he had decided to go with the serious/tough professor approach, with no coddling and no compromise, thinking that strict control over class time would lead to increased dissemination and absorption of content. Or something. The truth of the matter was that the future-Greatest Dark Wizard of All Time had absolutely no idea how to deal with children.

His first class that day, which was also his first _class_ , consisted of third year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors - hardly the most appealing combination. He wrote his name on the board so that he didn't have to waste time telling them who he was, because they certainly weren't getting an introduction, and as the class filed in he handed the roster to someone in the front row.

"Initial by your names so I know you were here, then pass it along," he instructed.

"Don't you want to _know_ our names, sir?" a Hufflepuff girl in the second row asked in a flirtatious voice that made him extremely uncomfortable.

"Not particularly."

"Professor _Merrythought_ knew all our names," a Gryffindor boy said.

Tom stared at him for a minute. The boy fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"I am not Professor Merrythought," he stated. "I do not care what your names are. My job is to ensure that you receive your education in the Dark Arts-"

"Don't you mean Defense Against-"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts. Yes, of course." _Bloody hell._

There was a moment of silence as the roster was passed from student to student.

Then the Hufflepuff girl raised her hand, leaning over her desk as if she were trying to get as close to him as possible. "Sir?" she asked.

"What?"

"My name's Tilly, sir. I just thought you should know."

"Great."

She raised her hand again. "Professor? Excuse me, Professor?"

" _What,_ Tilly?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

The class laughed at her, but she did not care in the least, and many of the other girls in the room were now staring at Tom with burning curiosity.

"That is irrelevant to the matter at hand," he said, forcing himself not to blush through sheer god-like willpower and trying desperately to stifle the impulse to hex anyone that looked at him. Turning an entire class of children into a pile of shrunken heads on the first day was most likely frowned upon. "Can we focus, please?"

Tilly did not look dissuaded, but she kept quiet.

"Now, your second-year curriculum left off with blood curses, both genetic and viral, that manifest beast-like qualities - the werewolf, the maledictus, et cetera - so we will pick up there until the basics are understood and we can move on to something more useful."

Things were calm after that, and Tom almost managed to get through the entire lesson until he made the mistake of asking if anyone had questions. Then it all fell apart.

A short Gryffindor girl raised her hand. "Sir?" she called.

"Yes?"

"If two werewolves have sex, and one gets pregnant, does she have wolf cubs? Or a baby?"

"I don't- why would you even think of-"

"And sir?" It was a Hufflepuff boy this time. "If a woman gives birth to werewolf cubs, how do they turn human?"

"Sir, can werewolves crossbreed with dogs?"

"Is there a chance my rabbit is a maledictus?"

"Can a maledictus be forced to turn into _any_ animal? Can there be, like, a maledictus that has to turn into a maggot?"

The class started talking animatedly and asking questions over each other and Tom had never felt less in control.

"I will turn the next person that asks a question into a maggot myself," he said, his voice low but threatening enough that they still caught it over the din.

They seemed much more intimidated by him after that. Well, except for Tilly, who was inexplicably staring at him with even _more_ longing.

* * *

However annoying Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were, they paled in comparison to the Slytherins.

Tom knew that Slytherins tended to be a bit full of themselves, but he had no idea just how obnoxious they could get until he had to teach them. It was like talking to a room full of brick walls – pompous, privileged, well-connected brick walls that believed they had any class "in the bag" if it was taught by a former Slytherin.

And somehow, despite his loyalty to his house, it gave him the (not entirely irrational) desire to make their lives a living hell.

The fourth year Slytherins were arriving and taking their seats while he tried to prepare the lesson, and it took a minute for him to notice that a short, stocky boy was standing on the other side of the desk, smiling at him like a used broom salesman and offering his hand to shake.

"Sir," he said in a drawling, high-class voice, "my name is Murray. Wallsend Murray. Brilliant to meet you. Perhaps you know my father Hephaestus? He's the Deputy Undersecretary for Education."

"And?" Tom demanded, wondering what the hell kind of sadistic parents would name their child "Wallsend."

"And, well, I thought you might have heard of him."

"Why would I have heard of him?"

"Because… he's… the Deputy Undersecretary for Education."

Tom stared at him, trying to wrap his head around the astonishing level of arrogance. "Brilliant," he muttered. "And when that becomes relevant to today's lesson, I'll let you know, and you can announce it to the class."

The boy sat down looking highly offended.

Like the previous lesson, this one also seemed to be doomed from the start. The next question came as the roster was being passed around.

A girl at the front raised her hand but did not wait to be called on before speaking. "Sir, are you related, by any chance, to the Bordeaux Riddells of France?" She said the word "France" as if challenging anyone else to outdo her in having impressive foreign contacts.

"No."

Someone else raised their hand. "Professor, weren't you a Slytherin?"

"Not that it matters, but yes." He wasn't surprised that they had obtained information about him already. Slytherins sought out intelligence on their enemies better than Russian spies.

And another. "Professor, is it true that you're a half-"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, "is this an interrogation? Or will I be allowed to teach?"

Strangely, his tone of warning did not seem to intimidate them as much as it did the third years.

Sometime later, a haughty, bored-looking girl interrupted Tom mid-sentence to explain that-

"I don't think that's right, Professor. My _mother_ always said that a jinx was worse than a hex, and _she_ should know because she used to work-"

"Unless your sentence is going to end in 'as a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,' please stop talking."

"But she was an auror. An _auror_."

"Saying it twice doesn't make it any more relevant to this lecture."

"But aurors-"

"No."

"But they-"

"No."

The girl eventually resorted to pouting with her arms folded while staring at him with intense dislike.

By the end of the lesson he'd broken up at least two blood purity-related arguments, given the son of the _Daily Prophet_ 's Chief Editor detention, and had to explain why one's uncle being on the Board of Governors did not exempt one from homework assignments, all while receiving very disconcerting looks from the girls. At least the fourth years had the decency not to ask him about his marital status. Though, being Slytherins, they probably knew it already.

* * *

The study hall, in which the only thing students were required to do was sit quietly and read, was perhaps the worst part of Tom's first day, because the only thing the students absolutely _refused_ to do was sit quietly and read.

Either forcing the first week's study hall duty on the newest teacher was some kind of hazing ritual, or the universe had specially designed this unique brand of torture just for him.

As it was the first day of classes, no one had any real assignments to finish, which meant that the entire thing was largely pointless. The students were keenly aware of this. They were scattered throughout the large, high-ceilinged eighth-floor classroom, chatting and carrying on, and a few were even throwing some sort of ball around. His arrival went unnoticed, even as he walked to the front and took a seat at the teacher's desk. Not a single student acknowledged his existence.

"Sit down, please," he called.

No one responded.

"Sit down," he demanded again.

Nothing.

In a rare and satisfying moment of clarity, he had an idea. Rather than wasting his time trying to call the room to attention, he raised his wand toward the ceiling, muttered a short incantation, then sat back to enjoy the chaos.

The stone archways of the ceiling disappeared as a massive swelling of dark clouds filled the space, growing larger and darker until, finally, rain began to fall. Caught in the sudden downpour, the children scrambled to cover themselves and protect their belongings while Tom conjured a makeshift umbrella and watched them with a smug smile on his face.

It got their attention, to say the least.

"It would be wise," he said, after the rain had stopped and they were finally seated, looking soaked and miserable, "for you to remain quiet for the remainder of this study hall."

And they _were_ quiet… for a while.

But children were children, and before long they were whispering to each other and passing notes and quickly sliding up the scale from somewhat tolerable to generally insufferable again. He managed to confiscate a few of the notes and decided to read them out loud just to reiterate who had command of the room.

"Let us see what is so important you felt the need to break my rules." He held up the first note. "'Who is he? Is he even a teacher?'" he read. "Hm, no. I just really like sitting at the front of the room because it makes me feel important."

He read another one. "'Is that the new DADA professor?' Bully for you, you're observant."

And another. "'DADA is a… dish.'" A considerable amount of snickering and giggling occurred after that. "Well, thank you for that, I suppose. Would anyone else like to comment on my appearance?"

He'd said it sarcastically. It was supposed to be sarcasm.

But several hands went into the air.

"The next person that makes a noise will receive an inordinately painful amount of detentions," he said, trying not to appear embarrassed. "You are at school. Sit and read."

"But sir?" called an older boy from the back who obviously had no concern for his own safety. "We don't have anything to read yet. It's the beginning of the term."

"Then sit and stare at the bloody wall."

Within twenty minutes the room had begun to fill with whispers and chatter again, and he reverted to the only method that seemed to work.

* * *

The next morning, Slughorn stopped him in the hallway, looking confused.

"Er, Tom, I hate to ask, but..."

"Yes?"

"You didn't happen to, er… conjure a thunderstorm on top of the Monday night study hall, did you?"

"I did."

"Twice?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"Because they deserved it."

Slughorn winced. "I see, I see… Well, I must be honest, Tom, violent weather phenomena are not on our list of approved disciplinary practices, but I commend your creativity. Anyway, I know study halls can be quite a chore, and I do regret having to put your name down for the first week-"

" _You_ made the schedule?"

He shrugged. "It's one of the few things Dumbledore trusts me with. Though, I admit I'd very much prefer not having to do it."

"Such a trivial administrative task is not worth your time, sir. I can take it on, if you like."

"Are you sure?" Slughorn appeared intrigued and concerned at the same time. "It's quite tedious."

"I don't mind. Is the entire staff eligible for study hall duty?"

"Yes. Well, everyone except Dippet, which is understandable, you know."

He smiled. "It won't be a problem, Horace. I'll take care of it."

There were a number of impressive achievements of which Tom was proud, of course: he'd opened the Chamber of Secrets; he'd made multiple Horcruxes, which no one had done before; and he'd even successfully framed someone for murder. _Twice_. But never had he felt more satisfied than when he had managed to obtain control of study hall duty, which he decided he would wield like a deadly weapon of agonizing inconvenience against anyone that annoyed him. _Anyone_.


	5. Actions and Consequences

It was seven o'clock in the morning, and they were talking.

And talking.

And talking.

And all Tom wanted to do was finish eating and retreat to his classroom.

He was only in the staff room because he'd wanted to replace the study hall schedule with his own newly designed masterpiece - in which Dumbledore was prominently featured - and figured he might as well eat something while he was there.

But Peggy and Whatever-His-First-Name-Was Fogg had joined him at the table before he could escape, and he was now trapped in the worst of all social prisons: small talk. He had considered getting up and leaving, but he was still hoping to build positive (and therefore useful) relationships with the staff. So, he stayed.

"On a tiny screen," Fogg was saying. "Like one of our pictures, but with sound."

"How is that even possible?" Peggy asked in awe.

"No idea."

A month ago, he never would have believed he'd find himself sitting at a table next to a Muggle Studies professor, considering most of his associates would have hunted Muggles for sport if given the chance. Yet there he was, being talked at by a man who insisted that Muggles were "brilliantly innovative" because they had managed to stuff moving pictures into a tiny, ugly box and have them make noise. Poorly.

"And the best part," Fogg went on, "is now they're in color. Really, it's quite impressive."

"Indeed," said Peggy.

"Why?" Tom asked.

Fogg looked confused. "Why what?"

"Why is it impressive?"

"Because it's innovative!"

"Why is it innovative?"

"Er- I suppose because it's never been done before. The point is that we don't give Muggles enough credit for the things they come up with."

Tom nodded. "Yes. Like the atomic bomb. We should _definitely_ give them credit for that."

"The what?"

"Never mind."

"So, Tom!" Peggy said, wisely changing the subject. "How are your classes going?"

"Fine," he said quietly.

"The first year is always the hardest," Fogg explained. "It gets easier."

That wasn't comforting at all.

"What years do you have today?" asked Peggy.

"First, fifth, second-"

"Oh no."

"What?"

Peggy shook her head grimly. "Second years."

"What about them?"

"I've never had to teach below third year, thank god," said Fogg.

"Nor have I," said Peggy, "but I've heard things. Awful things."

That was maddeningly unhelpful. "What 'awful things?'" he asked, wondering how on earth a class of twelve-year-olds could be considered threatening.

"You know how the first years are usually quiet and meek?"

"Yes..." He'd found the first years incredibly easy to teach.

"Well, the second years are the complete opposite."

"Why would the second years be any different from first years?"

"Not only are they further along in puberty, making them moody and vicious, but they also have none of the shy awkwardness that the first years get that keeps them so quiet."

"They're monsters," Fogg added. "Ask Minerva about why animal transfiguration was removed from her second-year lesson plans."

"And if you talk to Beery, _never_ mention the Mandrake-Tentacula Fiasco."

"Well, thank you for that detailed and not at all terrifying explanation," Tom muttered, getting up to leave. He had decided that positive relationships with fellow professors were not worth the pain of having to suffer through small talk.

Their sinister comments bounced around in the back of his mind all through the morning, right up until the minute before his first second-year lesson, but he managed to convince himself there was no reason to be intimidated.

After all, there were very few things that legitimately scared him, given the wide range of horrible activities in which he had partaken before the age of eighteen. And after, for that matter. There was no doubt in his mind that he could handle a class of slightly moody children.

* * *

The tension in the room was palpable. They could sense his weakness. Smell the new blood in the air like a pack of wolves. Ravenous, hormonal, pimply wolves.

They were oddly quiet when he arrived, sitting in their seats and staring at him. He could feel their eyes on him as he threw the notes up on the board and set the roster on one of the desks in the first row. He felt strangely cornered.

"Please initial by your name so I know you were here," he said.

They did not move.

"Where's Merrythought?" one of them demanded.

"Professor Merrythought has retired. I teach this class now."

"Who are you?"

"My name is on the board."

"You look too young to be a professor. How old are you?"

"How old I am is no concern of yours."

"When did you graduate?"

It was as if they were challenging him. "As I said, my age is irrelevant."

For the first time, one of them raised a hand. Finally, some respect. "Yes?"

"Sorry, Professor, sir, but if you're so young, are you really qualified to teach-"

"That's enough," he warned, trying to stifle the sound of Peggy's voice in his head.

' _Awful things..._ '

They ignored his command and directed their inquiries to each other instead.

"Isn't there an age requirement for teaching?"

"There has to be."

"Why doesn't he just tell us his age?"

"I think he went to school with my sister. She's a seventh year."

"SILENCE!" he yelled in his best I-will-murder-everyone-you-love voice.

Like a scene from a nightmare, they stopped talking abruptly and turned their heads to stare at him as one collective, twenty-headed monster.

"There's no need to shout, Professor," one of them mumbled from the back.

There was a wave of laughter, and then the chatting returned.

His wand was raised and the incantation for removing tongues was halfway out of his mouth before he realized something. A significant number of his associates always seemed much easier to handle when he directed their energies toward something that suited their interests, like hatred or violence.

What did children find interesting?

He conjured a projector, pulled out the visual aids he'd painstakingly put together, found the most gruesome, disgusting one, and threw it onto the screen.

The image appeared on the blackboard and there was instant silence.

"What is that?" one of them asked.

"If you stay quiet, I will tell you."

They did.

"This," he explained, "is the result of a poorly executed fire-breathing hex."

An enthralled-looking girl raised her hand. "Are those his organs?" she asked.

"Yes, and muscle tissue."

"Oooh."

More hands went into the air. He pointed at a boy near the front.

"How did he get like that?"

"Chapter seven of your book has a delightfully detailed description of the incorrect casting." The sound of shuffling filled the room as almost every student rushed to take out his or her text, and after a few moments he continued. "Hexes normally cause a moderate amount of damage, but poorly cast hexes can be much more dangerous."

And so the lesson began.

The only things that kept them interested and engaged were gory, disgusting details, and he had plenty of those. It seemed to work, though some of their questions were a bit worrying.

"Can you cast hexes incorrectly on purpose, sir?"

"Well, it would be more prudent to utilize a hex that produces the desired effect by its nature, rather than trying to get a specific result out of a mistake."

"Sir, how do you make the fire go inside someone's body?"

"In this case, the goal was to give the caster the ability to wield fire like a weapon. Instead, the fire was conjured _inside_ the target, causing internal combustion and disembowelment."

There was a quiet, unassuming little thought in the back of his head that perhaps he was making a massive mistake by teaching second years about the ins and outs of hex theory. But he was too proud of his own success over having gained control of the class to listen to it.

* * *

In the afternoon he turned his attention to preparing for his first advanced class. This was what he had really been looking forward to. Finally, he would be able to utilize his most rigorous lesson plan and engage with minds that were undoubtedly as fascinated by the subject as he was.

He should have known to lower his expectations.

By the time the bell sounded, only about half the class had shown up.

"Where are the Gryffindors?" was his first question.

"In their dorms, sir," said the single Hufflepuff. "They had a party last night and... and this morning."

"Wait here," he told them, and left the classroom. Filled with a strong sense of purpose, he walked all the way across the castle and did not stop until he was outside of the Gryffindor common room, which, he realized with vague annoyance, was much closer to his flat than he had thought it was. It was a wonder he didn't hear any sign of a party the previous night.

"Password?" said the portrait.

"Sal- salutiferous," he mumbled, wishing the blanket teachers' password was easier to remember.

The portrait swung open and he walked in to find Gryffindors scattered everywhere. There was no other way to describe them. It was as if they were confetti, thrown here and there, curled into balls on sofas and lying face down on the bare stone floor, drooling. One child was wedged into the narrow window above the stairs. The air reeked of alcohol.

He cast a spell that filled the common room with the loudest, most tinny, ear-murdering sound in existence.

Most of them woke with a start. A few of them screamed. The boy in the window fell to the floor.

"Gryffindors," he said in his most threatening voice, "if you are not in your appropriate classrooms in five minutes you will receive a lifetime of detention."

He left the common room feeling relatively satisfied.

Several minutes later, with a full sixth-year class in front of him, Tom began what was sure to be a fascinating lesson on prejudicial spells and rituals, one of his personal areas of expertise.

And while he taught, the severely hungover Gryffindors stared at him from the corner of the room with looks of absolute loathing.

* * *

"I don't want to talk about it," Minerva stated, walking faster so that he had to make an effort to keep up with her.

"It can't be _that_ bad. I didn't find my second year students to be nearly as difficult as Peggy made them out to be." A slight falsehood.

"I'm still not talking about it, Tom."

Now he _had_ to know. "I just don't understand what twelve-year-olds could possibly have done that was so horrible-"

She stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face him. "Every time I clean my classroom," she muttered, "I still find feathers. That is all I will say on the matter."

Before Tom could interrogate her further, there was a loud explosion somewhere ahead of them, followed by a series of screams.

They turned the corner to find a scene out of Dante's _Inferno_. The entire corridor was on fire and children were running out into the courtyard to escape.

In the middle of the chaos, trapped by a wall of flames, two small second year boys were furiously launching balls of fire at each other like they were playing some kind of extreme form of tennis.

Minerva was beside herself. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she screamed.

"Sorry, Professor," yelled one of the boys. "The fire was supposed to go _inside_ him, not outside."

"What the bloody- HOW IS THAT BETTER?"

Tom turned away quickly and attempted to extinguish the blaze, making a mental note that younger children apparently had the tendency to take things quite literally.

Minerva gave the boys centuries of detentions and removed a significant number of points from Ravenclaw and Slytherin before sending them on their way.

She shook her head at the state of the corridor and then turned to Tom. "What on _earth_ would possess them?"

"No idea," he said.

* * *

The Great Hall was looking particularly grand and impressive that evening, its enchanted ceiling bathing the room in the orange and pink colors of sunset as the light from the floating candles reflected off of the many goblets and plates lining the tables, causing them to glitter like gold.

Which was unfortunate because no one was paying any attention to it.

Dinner had been loudly and violently interrupted by a series of explosions from the Ravenclaw table, followed by a nauseating variety of smells. Several teachers rushed over to inspect the commotion, and an attempt was made to wake Grayson, Ravenclaw's Head of House, who had fallen asleep in his chair before dinner had even begun.

Whatever the Ravenclaws had done was causing part of their table to melt into some sort of gooey substance and drip onto the floor, which then also melted and dripped into the kitchens beneath them. And the hole seemed to be getting wider.

While Dumbledore evacuated the Hall, Tom joined the other teachers, who were standing around the newly made chasm, wearing faces of annoyance and exasperation. No one seemed particularly out of sorts, however. Apparently this sort of thing was common.

Eventually Slughorn showed up, scooped a sample of the offending goo into a vial, and investigated it while everyone awaited his verdict.

"What is it?" Ilania asked him.

But he did not answer. Instead, he sighed, shook his head, and then yelled "CORNELIA!"

His Potions understudy had been sitting at the end of the teachers' table and appearing mysteriously uninterested in the chaos. When she heard her name, she came over to them, her face blank.

"Is something wrong?" she asked innocently, as if there were not a massive hole in front of them, burning itself toward the center of the earth.

"Cornelia," Slughorn said, an unfamiliar note of anger in his voice, "when I asked you to dispose of those disgusting, illegal transmogrified heads because they were extremely dangerous and volatile and should never be used under any circumstances, did you, in fact, dispose of them?"

"No."

"What did you do with them?"

She shrugged. "I was assisting some of your seventh years with brewing and they were missing a few key items. I taught them how to test ingredients to see if they could serve as replacements. I guess they decided to practice on their own."

"So you let them use shrunken heads?" he asked her in disbelief. "To replace _what_?"

"Water."

There was a collective groan from the teachers.

She glared at them all in defiance. "What? Don't blame me!" she countered. "Blame him! He sold them to me!"

She was pointing at Tom.

"I- what?" he stuttered.

"Last week. You basically _forced_ me to buy them!"

Every face turned to look at him.

"Tom," said Ilania, "did you sell Cornelia shrunken heads?"

"Of course he didn't," Slughorn answered for him. "Don't be preposterous." But he threw Tom the briefest of concerned looks.

Beery seemed confused. "Was this some kind of... underground trade or something?"

"No, they were in that shop," said Cornelia. "The one he works in."

"What shop?"

Tom stood there like an idiot, unsure of what to do. "I didn't- I only sold you what you asked for," he said.

At that moment, the hole expanded, taking a significant portion of Ravenclaw's table with it, and everyone turned their attention toward attempting to abate it.

After the chaos died down Tom looked for Cornelia in order to confront her, but she had conveniently disappeared.

* * *

The level of exhaustion he had reached by the end of the day was downright unhealthy, and the only thing he wanted to do after he'd returned to his flat was go to bed.

Which was why, when the sounds of music, cheering, and general rowdiness filled his ears just as he was about to fall asleep, brutally murdering the entirety of Gryffindor House seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

He approached Gryffindor's portrait for the second time that day, muttered the ridiculous password, and stormed into their cushy, childish, obnoxiously red common room.

It looked as if every single Gryffindor was there, drinking and carrying on, most of them underage. A group of older students stood near the fire, lobbing fireworks into the flames and laughing like idiots, while a number of children danced on tables to the beat of loud music emanating from some unknown source.

"What's going on here?" he shouted.

"Nothing, Professor," several of them said in unison, not bothering to hide their drinks. "Just celebrating the start of term."

Tom knocked a Butterbeer bottle out of one of their hands. "Turn that music off," he demanded.

The cacophony of noises stopped abruptly.

"If I hear one more sound tonight," he continued, "I will make sure that every single one of you is expelled."

He made it back to the third-floor corridor thinking he ought to be rather proud of himself for not leaving Gryffindor Tower a bloody, smoldering ruin (clearly, he was a paragon of self-control). Instead, he had decided he would wait until the morning and inform Dumbledore of his House's barbaric behavior.

But when he tried to enter his quarters, the door seemed to be stuck. He put some force behind it and managed to push it open enough for him to squeeze in.

He swore. Loudly.

The entire flat, from the walls to the floor to the lampshades, had been painted in red and gold. The living room was filled with plush, mismatched chairs, undoubtedly taken from the Gryffindor common room, and the enchanted image of a massive lion was pacing back and forth from window to window, growling at him with two-dimensional hunger in its eyes.

Running through a list of particularly nasty curses in his head, he returned to the Gryffindor common room and barked the password at its ridiculous portrait for the third time.

"Quite rude," the Fat Lady said before swinging open.

The room was empty and silent. All evidence of a party had been removed. The place looked immaculate.

The next day Tom confronted Dumbledore in the early hours of the morning, showing up at his office and demanding that he do something about the complete and utter disrespect and disobedience shown by his House.

"The individuals responsible must be found and punished as soon as possible," he raged.

"I will look into the matter," Dumbledore assured him.

"Now?"

"As soon as I have the time to do so."

That was not good enough. "I really think you ought to prioritize this issue a bit higher. Sir," he added hastily.

Dumbledore sighed. "I am afraid I'm unable to do that, Tom."

"Why not?"

"I have a frightfully and unexpectedly busy schedule this week."

"What? Why?"

"Well, I seem to have landed myself with an unusual amount of study halls."


	6. Those Good Looks Won't Last Forever

Several weeks had gone by and, to his own amazement, Tom hadn't killed anyone.

He'd certainly _threatened_ death enough times for it to be concerning, not to mention torture and the occasional maiming. He deserved a merit medal for the level of self-control he'd managed to maintain that first month.

But his innocent streak almost came to an end on a Friday evening, when he walked past one of the study hall rooms to find a crowd of unaccompanied children talking and carrying on, not a teacher in sight.

That particular study hall belonged to Grayson. He had thrown Tom a rude and unnecessary comment about age one night at dinner, and so the next morning his name was beside thirty-six different study hall sessions.

Tom threatened the children with general flaying if they moved and set out to find the old man.

He knew exactly where to look, because he had made a point to start memorizing the other teachers' habits and schedules, and Grayson only ever visited three places in the evening: the staff room, the Great Hall for dinner, where he got most of his sleep, and his quarters.

He was in the staff room, standing by the fire, reading the Daily Prophet like it was a lazy Sunday morning.

"Mr Grayson, there is a study hall on the third floor that requires your attention, I believe."

He cupped a hand to his ear. "What?"

"I _said_ you are supposed to be taking the study hall-"

"What? What ball?"

"THE STUDY HALL-"

"Oh, right. No need to shout, son. You young people these days are so angry."

Tom sighed. "I can't imagine why. So you'll take care of it, then?"

"Hm? No, I don't do study halls, mate."

"But your name is on the-"

"What? Sorry, can't hear you." He turned around abruptly and shuffled off and Tom was so annoyed that he actually had his wand out and pointed at the back of the man's head before he stopped himself.

The fact that an old wanker with selective hearing loss had managed to render his ultimate bureaucratic weapon useless by simply _walking away_ was infuriating.

In truth, he realized as he made his way toward the Great Hall, he'd been feeling uncharacteristically powerless of late.

And to make it worse, his age proved to be consistently problematic in a number of ways. All of the older members of staff, with the exception of Slughorn, either threw him a constant stream of useless, patronizing advice or made jokes about how he was "barely" out of school.

But he was faced with another problem: in the month that he'd been teaching, he had not taken any time to explore the castle, investigate the things he needed to investigate, or attempt to search for anything meaningful that could be of use to him. There wasn't _time_.

Nor had he made any progress in recruiting followers to his cause. He hoped the Slug Club would assist him in that endeavor, but for the moment, he needed a way to identify potential assets and establish himself as a mentor.

He was deep in thought, brainstorming methods of recruitment and wondering how best to attract young minds, when he nearly collided with a group of girls in front of the Great Hall. He moved to pass them, but one of them blocked his path.

"Hi," she said, the girls behind her giggling so hard they looked as if they were seizing.

"Can I help you?" he demanded.

She smiled shyly. "My name's Hester."

"And?"

"Hester Hopkirk."

He stared at her.

"We- we went to school together. Technically."

He _must_ have heard her wrong. "I'm sorry?"

"I was a second-year Slytherin when you- when you graduated."

"I don't think-"

"We never met properly," she said quickly, her cheeks turning red. "I mean, you were always so popular, and I was just..."

He shook his head. "You are mistaken. There is no way that I... was..."

He did the math in his head.

 _Shit_.

Why had this possibility never occurred to him before now? Of all the glaringly obvious things...

"Well, I was wondering," she continued, her friends appearing to be in the process of suffocating to death in silence, "I turned seventeen last summer, and..."

"And?"

She gave him a suggestive look. "And, there's nothing illegal about a da-ate," she sang.

"'A date?'"

"Yes!"

"What?"

"I would _love_ to go on a date with you!" she said in a loud, excited voice.

At that moment, because the universe was a cruel, cruel bastard, Minerva turned up behind them. Her eyes darted back and forth between the girls and Tom, and there was a look of shock on her face.

"Go to your common room now," he snapped, almost yelling, "and do not speak to me again."

They ran away cackling like hyenas, and he was left with a very, extremely, apocalyptically cross Minerva.

Uncharacteristically powerless indeed.

She had started to march down the hallway, her anger almost visible, and he followed in order to attempt an explanation.

"That was not what it sounded like," he told her.

"What that sounded like," she said in the stern disciplinarian's voice she used when she was furious, "was a teacher attempting to fraternize with a student. An _underage_ student. An underage student that said teacher is responsible for counseling and keeping safe."

"Well, technically she's seventeen, but-"

Minerva glared at him with a rage so intense he thought she might try to curse him. Evidently, pointing out the technicality did not help.

"Anyway," he continued, "that was not what was happening, I assure you. I don't even know who she is."

They had made it to her office, and she stopped just outside the door. "In," she commanded.

He walked inside and turned to face her. "Honestly, there is nothing to-"

"Sit." She pointed at a chair near her desk.

"Minerva, this is ridicu-"

"Do not talk."

If at any point in the future Minerva McGonagall decided she wanted to become a Dark witch, she would probably take over the world in a matter of weeks, and her rule would be efficient and uncompromising.

He had never been inside her office and was surprised to find that it was a small-scale disaster area. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, several mice fought each other inside her tea mug, and he had to move a cage of opossums to get to the chair.

She sat down behind her desk and rolled up a piece of parchment that was at least four feet long, placing it precariously on top of a poorly transfigured vase made of bats.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"If you must know, I'm working on mid-term exams, and it's a bit overwhelming this year."

"Mid... term? But it's the end of September."

She looked at him like he was mad. "Tom, have you not started drafting your exams yet?"

"Oh, yes," he lied, "yes, of course I have. I was merely suggesting that you need not overwork yourself so early in the term." He tried to give her an encouraging smile.

Which she ignored.

"Back to the matter at hand," she said, fixing him with a scrutinizing stare reminiscent of Albus Dumbledore circa 1943. "I trust you know, as you were undoubtedly told in your orientation, that any fraternization with students is strictly forbidden."

"I didn't-"

" _Strictly_."

"Yes, I understand. Though, to be honest, I never received any sort of orientation. But that's beside the point. There was no fraternization of any type occurring."

"Then I am to believe you were _not_ scheduling a date with Miss Hopkirk?"

"That is correct."

She stared at him a bit more, clearly assessing the truthfulness of his statement. Evidently she believed him, which was nice, considering it was one of the few times he wasn't actually lying, and she seemed a bit less furious.

"At any rate," she said, "you should be more careful about interacting with female students."

"I do not 'interact' with female students. Admittedly, I receive an _excessive_ amount of unwanted attention from them, for some reason."

He knew very well what the _reason_ was, but he did not want to sound arrogant.

She snorted. "Frankly, Tom, it's a bit naïve to be surprised by it."

"What?"

She looked at him pointedly, as if she really shouldn't have had to explain it. "You are trapped in a castle surrounded by the most dangerous beings on the planet: hormonal teenagers. I can't tell you how many times I've caught boys looking at me like roast dinner, fresh out of the oven. It's disgusting."

So, he didn't come off as arrogant. Just thick.

What he had meant to say next was: "that is ridiculous. Why would they dare to look at you that way? Surely they have more respect for you than that." But what came out was:

"That is ridiculous. Who would look at you that way?"

Minerva stared at him for a moment, her cheeks turning bright red. "Right," she muttered, standing and gathering a mess of papers in her arms.

He cursed internally. "Wait, I didn't-"

"Right." She strode quickly across the room and out the door.

He followed her out into the corridor. "Minerva, I only meant that-"

"Do please enjoy your excessive unwanted attention while you can," she said in an unusually high voice. "Those good looks won't last forever."

She disappeared around a corner, leaving Tom standing there like an idiot, something he seemed to be doing a lot of recently.

"That looked painful," said a voice behind him.

Dee Carson was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and looking at him with mild pity on her face.

"What?"

"Minerva's a tough one. Even _you_ will have trouble crackin' _that_ nut."

"I beg your pardon?"

She smiled benignly. "I know what it's like. You've got the looks and you're clever enough to use them. I bet no one ever tells _you_ 'no,' am I right?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what you're implying."

"But sometimes," she continued, "you're gonna hit a brick wall. Minerva's a brick wall, my friend. Better to spend your time on whatever other nefarious deeds you've been using that charm for, eh? Besides, like the lady said, those good looks won't last forever." She slapped him hard on the back, smiled, and walked away.

He continued to stand there like an idiot, trying and failing to process what had just happened.

* * *

 _Won't last forever_.

What the hell did that mean?

 _Won't last forever_.

He'd spent the first half of the day being annoyed that he was too young to be taken seriously, and the latter half of the day feeling the inevitable wheel of time suddenly bearing down upon him, pulling him closer and closer toward the frailty and disfigurement of old age.

No, he was beyond such superficial concerns. Age and attractiveness and other nonsense became irrelevant in the pursuit of power and immortality. He had a higher calling. A self-appointed destiny. And when he succeeded, it would not matter what he looked like or how old he was.

But after the third round of standing in the bathroom and staring at his face in the mirror, trying to convince himself of this logic, he realized he might have a problem.

When in doubt, ask Slughorn.

Slughorn knew everything about everything.

And he seemed to know even more when he was drinking.

"I won't lie," Slughorn said late that evening, sitting at his desk with a large glass of brandy in hand, "teaching ages you."

 _Brilliant_.

"You know," he continued, "there aren't many who teach at Hogwarts that came with the intention of teaching forever. Take Tyre, for example."

"What about him?" Tom asked, wondering if this entire conversation had been a mistake and if he was going to come out of it feeling even worse.

"Well, not sure if you know this, but poor Cillian used to be at the top of his field."

He used to make a point of knowing everything about his teachers while at school, except for the ones that seemed useless and unremarkable. Tyre had been one of the useless and unremarkable ones. "I did not know that," he said.

Slughorn downed his brandy and poured another glass. "Oh yes, quite a genius. His research was going to revolutionize Charms theory and application. He'd even had a patent in for a new form of instantaneous travel, if I remember correctly."

"What happened to him?"

"Well, there wasn't much money in magical research back then, so he came to Hogwarts for a steady income, and to utilize it as a base of operations, so to speak. For his own research, you know. And then he just got... stuck."

"Stuck?"

"Stuck," Slughorn repeated, gesturing with his glass and slopping brandy onto his shirt. "And look at him now. Can't even get rid of those ruddy horns properly."

"How long did he-"

"Fifty-five years," Slughorn muttered. "No, wait - fifty-eight."

This entire conversation was a mistake, and Tom felt much, much worse.

As if reading his thoughts, Slughorn poured him a glass of brandy before continuing. "Same thing happened to Herb," he said. "Did you know Herb wanted to be an actor?"

Tom pictured the large, red-faced Beery in his mind and could not imagine him as anything other than a squat potato. Hardly a performer. "How did he end up teaching Herbology?"

Slughorn thought for a moment. "You know, I'm not sure. Just... one day, an actor, and the next, an Herbology professor. Then thirty years go by-"

"Thirty? Good lord." Beery had been another one he'd categorized as useless and unremarkable.

He took a sip of brandy.

 _Useless and unremarkable_.

He drank the rest.

"By the way, while you're here..." Slughorn reached into his desk and pulled out a small piece of parchment. "Don't usually start this early in the year - I like to launch things at the Halloween party, you know - but I don't see why we need to wait, since you're here to help."

He handed the parchment to Tom. It looked to be a list of names.

"What is this?"

"Slug Club potentials. Nice crop this year, I think. Lots of legacies, a smattering of nouveaux riche, a prodigy or two."

He read a few of the names, noticing with annoyance that many of them were Slytherins to whom he had given detentions in the past for generally existing. "When did you start recruiting girls to the Slug Club?"

"Right before I was shut down by Dumbledore the last time. I thought doing so would satisfy him enough to leave me alone, but no luck."

"Is it wise to recruit girls?" He did not want his progress to be hampered by more... unwanted attention.

"They're a right lot better than the boys most of the time. Smarter, too."

How nice. Slughorn was apparently now an equal opportunity favoritist.

"And," he continued, "if Dumbledore finds out, we can just say we allow anyone to join."

"But we don't."

Slughorn shrugged.

Tom felt uneasy. "We don't, do we?"

"Relax, Tom. I know what I'm doing. I discovered you, didn't I?" He chuckled merrily, then downed the rest of his brandy and lit a cigar. "Anyway, plan the meetings for me, won't you? I'm focusing on the Halloween party. I've almost nabbed Dathi Bogue as a special guest. A few more letters should do it."

"Who?"

Slughorn stared at him, blowing smoke into the air. "Good lord, boy. He's only the greatest operatic vocalist the magical world has ever produced."

"Right." Tom got up to leave.

"And one more thing," Slughorn added, pointing with his cigar and dropping ash all over his desk, "make sure you have a date for the party."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's a party, Tom. _Honestly_. It wasn't as embarrassing when you were a student and would show up alone. But now..." He shook his head. "You need to get on that, anyway. You're not getting any younger, you know."

Tom slammed the office door on his way out.

* * *

"Why am I spying on Americans?" Lestrange asked, carefully eyeing every person in the Hog's Head and monitoring their movements as if they were all enemy operatives that would pull their wands out at any second and strike him down.

"Because I have instructed you to do so," Tom said. "And it's not spying. It's intelligence gathering." Cornelia was just the first on a long list of investigations he was launching into the staff at Hogwarts in an attempt to exert a bit more control over his situation.

"Right." Lestrange looked down at the photo Tom had given him. "Does this have anything to do with her being young and pretty?"

He'd always been a no-nonsense sort of person, and very, very blunt. It likely came with the territory - he was an extremely skilled assassin and spy.

"No," said Tom with a twinge of annoyance. "It has to do with her being a potential enemy."

"Does it have anything to do with her being a potential enemy that is also young and pretty?"

"No, Lestrange."

Lestrange narrowed his eyes and looked down at the photo, then up at Tom, then down at the photo again. "Right," he said. "If I find her, should I take her out?"

"What? No. I _know_ where she is... most of the time. And I don't need to be tied to a coworker's murder investigation right now. Just find out whatever you can."

"Suit yourself. Any idea what she's into?"

"Illegal Potions trade, possibly."

Lestrange sat back in his chair and folded his arms, looking disappointed. "That's it? Potions?"

"Trust me, it's relevant."

"To _what_?"

Tom glared at him. "Are you questioning my strategy?" ... _Of petty revenge_ , he added in his head.

"No."

"Good."

"Well, sort of. I mean-"

"Just do it, Lestrange."

Casting his eyes around the pub one more time in refined paranoia, Lestrange pocketed the photo and stood up. "Yes, sir," he said simply, and left.

It was refreshing to have someone follow his orders for once. Why were assassins easier to deal with than children?

Still, despite Tom's instruction, there was about a fifty-percent chance that Lestrange was going to murder Cornelia anyway.

Oh, well. Things happen.


	7. Modern Trends in Dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thank you to unspeakable3 for being a tremendous help with this chapter!

"Heard about your row with Minerva," said Fogg, joining Tom as he walked down the corridor, which was apparently a prime location for being bothered. "Really cocked that one up, eh?"

"No," Tom muttered, making a note to curse Fogg horribly later. "It was a simple misunderstanding. How do you even know about that?"

"Word spreads quickly here," he said. "Have to be careful. Anyway, if I may offer some advice-"

"Please don't."

"Women like men who can admit their mistakes. All you have to do is apologize."

"Brilliant. Noted." He veered off into a courtyard to escape, and he could hear Fogg calling out behind him:

"They like flowers, too!"

The problem was that he _was_ going to have to apologize, because he did _not_ want half the faculty to despise him in his first year. Hatred too often allowed room for suspicion and, of course, retaliation. He did not need anyone actively trying to work against him out of spite.

It was probably better just to get it over with, anyway.

She was in the staff room, which was a deviation from her normal routine, and he wondered vaguely why she was there. In true Minerva fashion she was surrounded by stacks of papers and diligently writing away like a proper teacher. Had he not been rapidly losing the desire to become a proper teacher himself, he might have been inspired.

He sat down across the table from her. She looked up briefly, saw him, then looked back down at her work.

"Hello," he said.

She did not respond.

"I was hoping we could talk."

Silence.

"About the other-"

"Go away."

If they were alone, he would have been able to remove the memory of their conversation altogether, and the problem would be solved. But they were not alone, as evidenced by Beery, who took a seat at the table and greeted them cheerfully before opening the morning's paper.

Tom ignored him. "What happened the other day was a misunderstanding," he told Minerva quietly.

She glared at him. "You were considerably clear in your meaning. I do not think I misunderstood."

Why was this so difficult? "It was a mistake."

She looked at him briefly before returning to her writing. "Fine," she muttered.

"Fine," he muttered back. "If that's over with, I was wondering-"

"Oi, Riddle," Beery interrupted.

He did not bother to hide the annoyance in his voice. "What?"

"Is it true you tried to seduce a student?"

Minerva's face turned red and she got up and left, not even bothering to take her paperwork with her. Tom watched her go and then rounded on Beery, hoping his rage was evident.

"Er- sorry, son," Beery said. "Didn't mean to interrupt whatever that was. Didn't look too pleasant. If you want some advice-"

"DON'T," Tom shouted at him before leaving the staff room in a fury.

* * *

"Do you have a date yet?"

"No."

"Are you even trying to find one?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying to shut me up?"

"Possibly."

Slughorn sighed dramatically and threw his bacon onto his plate in a huff. "Honestly, I don't know why I bother."

"Neither do I."

"I'm doing you a favor, you know. You're not going to find..."

Tom wasn't listening. He was watching Cornelia, who was at the far end of the Great Hall, talking to a small group of older students with their heads bowed together like they were planning the American Revolution. What were they talking about?

Slughorn must have seen him looking at her. "Oh ho!" he exclaimed. "I see, I see. No offense, my boy, but that is a _cauldron_ of disasters waiting to happen."

"What?"

He nodded in Cornelia's direction. "That woman is downright insufferable sometimes. And, frankly, a little frightening."

"How so?"

"Just trust me. Not the date you want. Best to look elsewhere. In fact, I have a few friends in the Ministry..."

Why did so many of his single coworkers insist on giving him unwanted dating advice? "The Halloween party isn't for another two weeks," he said.

Cornelia left the Hall with several seventh years and he watched her go. How long would it take Lestrange to make his assessment? He wanted to know what she was up to _now_.

Slughorn mumbled something about stubbornness, gave Tom up as a lost cause, and left.

As soon as he disappeared, Minerva took his place.

"Hello," Tom said. "I didn't think you were-"

She slammed a folder down on the table in front of him.

"-talking to me."

Her face was emotionless - her version of a courteous and workplace-professional look of disgust.

"What is this?" he asked, opening the folder.

"Those are the materials given to all new teachers during their orientation," she stated.

"Oh. Thank you. Listen, while you're here-"

"Make sure to read those thoroughly. Wouldn't want you to slip up again."

She stood up and left.

"Brilliant."

A few minutes later Peggy sat down beside him. "Hi," she said.

He hoped at some point that he would actually be able to eat. "Hello. Are you here to give me dating advice or throw things at me?"

"Er- neither. I'm here to yell at you."

"Brilliant."

"I heard what you said to Minerva."

He sighed. "Of course you did. That was a misunderstanding." How many times was he going to have to say it?

"I hoped it was. I told her I couldn't believe you'd ever be that heartless."

"It's really not that significant of an issue. To be honest, she's being quite stubborn about it. I don't see... why..."

He stopped because she was giving him a look that strongly reminded him of the Matron at his orphanage - like she was not above slapping him across the face if he said another word.

"Make sure you apologize," she commanded, somehow _sounding_ like the Matron as well.

"I _have_ tried to apologize. She doesn't want to hear it."

"Try harder."

She got up and left.

When no one else came to berate him he finally attempted to eat, but found that he'd rather lost his appetite.

* * *

It had become apparent, given recent events, that something was… off. There were distinct deficiencies developing in several of his more highly prized skill sets, perhaps owing to unexpected distractions manifesting within the surrounding environment, or previously irrelevant concerns somehow forcing themselves to be prioritized higher than immediate interests, and which did not allow the requisite space for him to operate efficiently.

In other words, teaching was horrible, and it was turning him into an idiot.

But surprisingly, Slughorn's obnoxious dating advice that morning had given him an idea - one that would both address multiple pressing concerns and allow him to confirm that he was still capable of employing his most essential skills with success.

Cornelia's schedule outside of classes was more difficult to verify than the rest of the staff; it was as if she made a point to never visit the same place twice in the same week. So he chose a time during classes, in the middle of the day, to approach her. He found her near the dungeons, where she had just finished assisting with a sixth-year lesson.

"Hello," he said with a smile.

"Oh, it's you. What do you want? Is this about the shrunken head thing? You're not still mad about that, are you? I mean, angry."

"No. Actually, I was wondering..."

"Yes? What?"

 _Impatient_ , he thought to himself, making a mental note.

"I was just wondering if you would be attending the Halloween Party next week."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

_Carefully guarded? Highly suspicious._

"Well, you know, if you're not going with anyone..."

"How nice of you to ask the lowly Potions Understudy. Feeling sorry for me?"

 _Ego_.

"No..."

"Wait, aren't you the guy that tried to ask a student out on a date?"

"What? No, that wasn't-"

"Not a very attractive trait," she said, smiling.

_Informed. Rude. Antagonistic._

"Anyway," she continued, "I tend not to associate with _teachers_ outside of work. I prefer people who are a bit more... intellectual."

 _Arrogant. Unabashedly offensive_.

This called for something slightly more confrontational. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm not sure a Potions _Understudy_ has any more knowledge than an _actual_ _professor_." He made it sound as if the thought was unimaginable.

It worked.

Her face became blank for a moment, then she narrowed her eyes at him again, almost as if she had accepted his comment as a challenge - which was exactly what he had intended.

"What would I know? I'm sorry, _Professor_ , but unlike you, I chose _not_ to spend the rest of my life teaching school children some vague semblance of my area of expertise, because unlike teachers, I'm actually competent in my field. I am a researcher. I am expanding the boundaries of magical knowledge while you... grade papers. What do you teach, again?"

It was well done. Feigning ignorance to emphasize that he wasn't important enough for her to even remember his subject. "Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said.

She laughed. "Counter-curses and advanced shield charms, right? I bet you couldn't even perform Dark magic if you tried."

"You would be surprised." Veering slightly off course, but the accusation was unacceptable.

"Really? Do you even know how to determine negative intent ratio?"

"Depends on which method you prefer. Reinhart's Potential Intent Analysis? Or basic non-Gamp positive disintegration theory?"

She was silent for a moment, appraising him. "How to calculate curse area of affect?"

"By measuring conjurational probability density."

"How to make multi-host, multi-result, soul-bonded terminal agreements?"

"Create a unifying, remotely activated, psychosomatic trigger."

"Classifications of the non-physiological effects of Class 5 poisons?"

"Inherent, psychological, metaphysical."

If she was impressed, she hid it extremely well.

"How nice," she muttered. "They've hired someone minimally competent for once. Congratulations on raising the bar."

"Thank you, that means a lot coming from a Potions Understudy."

They stared each other down for a while. Then he remembered why he was there. "So, you're going to the party, then?"

She laughed. "If I am, you can rest assured I will not be taking a date."

"Any reason why?"

"Dates are tedious. Men are tedious. Intelligent men even more so. Anyway, I will have other things to concern myself with while I'm there."

"Like what?"

"Things that would not be of interest to high school teachers."

She walked away, and he thought he could hear her laughing to herself as she went.

He had no idea whether he had won or lost that argument, or if it had been an argument at all and not some kind of verbally abusive trivia game. Either way, he remained dateless. But he had gained a tiny bit of insight into Cornelia's personality and, possibly, her intentions.

And, he noted, her knowledge of the Dark Arts was a bit too encyclopedic for a Potions researcher.

The insight did nothing for his wounded pride, however.

* * *

"Professor, I thought we were meant to be going over advanced shield conjuration today?"

_'I bet you couldn't even perform Dark magic if you tried.'_

"Change of plans."

The test of his manipulation skills did not go as planned, so he decided to test himself another way. Also, he was extremely annoyed.

_'Do you even know how to determine negative intent ratio?'_

Not that he had anything to prove. He was beyond such pettiness.

Well, he used to be beyond such pettiness.

"Today," he said while outlining the tenets of conjurational probability density on the board for his seventh years, "we are going to learn how to create a curse."

"Is creating curses on the N.E.W.T. syllabus, sir?"

"Most likely not."

He mapped out the steps of the process carefully, replacing unpleasant and problematic terminology as needed.

"You must first decide whether you want the curse to affect your vic- your target internally or externally. External curses require more energy but tend to only produce physical effects. Psychological effects are much more fu- efficient."

When they were ready, they moved chairs and desks away to make a space in the middle of the room for testing the area of effect. Tom had a long and successful history of messing about with the fundamentals of magic (he considered himself an expert) so he insisted on trying the curse first, just to make sure the soundness of their calculations could be tested with proper skill and precision, and so that no one blew themselves up and made a mess of his classroom. Viscera were notoriously difficult to clear up.

He conjured a small teddy bear and placed it in the center of the space. The class waited with bated breath as he pointed his wand at the doomed bear and cast the curse.

At first it seemed like nothing had happened. There had been no sound, no light, no evidence whatsoever that he'd done anything. The bear sat there unharmed, almost mocking him with its pristine condition.

But then a series of events occurred in rapid succession, like a bomb being dropped on a bomb being dropped on a bomb:

First, one of the students said, "sir, what is that?" and pointed to something in the air above the bear. It appeared to be a tiny black line, like a crack in the wall without the wall.

Then another student made the idiotic decision to poke at the crack with his wand. It immediately started to grow, hairline fractures spreading out from it like breaking glass.

Then the growing chasm sucked up the bear, right out of existence, like a miniature cosmic hoover. That was the point at which Tom started to become slightly worried.

Then another student said, "can I try?" and pointed her wand at the thing with impressive determination.

"No, wait!"

He tried to stop her, but he was too late. She had already cast the curse, and a bright blue light traveled at high speed toward the crack, colliding with it and exploding in a blinding flash.

When the smoke cleared, he scanned the room to make sure no one was dead, because whole bodies were even more of a pain to deal with than viscera. They had been pushed back by the force of the explosion, but no one, it appeared, had been seriously hurt.

He then turned his gaze toward the middle of the room. There, in the space where the tiny crack had been, shamelessly existing with no regard for magical theory whatsoever, was a large, black hole.

It hovered over the stone floor like an ominous, faceless ghost. He wanted to say it was about the size and shape of a door, but it did not seem to have a discernible size or shape.

"Don't touch it," he warned the class.

It was difficult to look at, as if it wasn't really there. He circled the thing slowly, trying to perform some sort of examination, but no matter what angle he approached it from, it remained the same: a lightless hole. It did not appear to have any sides or edges. It made no sound and had no smell.

He instructed the students to leave and followed them out, closing, locking, and warding the door behind him.

* * *

The great black nothingness was still there when he returned with some of the staff that evening, and they determined through the most rigorous magical analyses possible that it had not changed shape, size, color, or location. It was still just a massive, floating, menacing reminder of Tom's complete and utter cock-up.

"What exactly were you trying to do?" Dippet asked him.

"Demonstrate the application of conjurational probability density. For an advanced shield charm."

They looked at him in confusion.

"You tried to make an advanced charm from scratch?"

"It was completely safe. And the theory was sound," he insisted. "I do not make mathematical errors."

But Dumbledore was examining the blackness, which seemed to exist and not exist at the same time, and shaking his head. "Forgive me, Professor," he said in his kind, respectful arsehole voice, "but I am not sure what else you could describe this as other than a mathematical error."

Ilania looked like she was in love. "I have never seen such a clear violation of the Seventh Law manifested so plainly before. It's beautiful."

 _Brilliant_ , Tom thought to himself. The only magical error he'd ever made as an adult and it broke physics. But at least it was beautiful.

"Is it dangerous?" Dumbledore asked Ilania.

"No, not likely dangerous. But I wouldn't touch it. It's simply a manifestation of conjurational energy."

"Can you destroy it?"

She shook her head. "Too many variables. It may already be self-sustaining. I suggest we leave it for now, until I have time to do an assessment. Or perhaps a paper. A book?"

"I was rather hoping it would be gone long before enough time had passed to write a book," said Dumbledore.

"I am not sure what to make of it," Dippet whispered, staring at the thing in awe.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "I've been alive a long time, and I must admit, I've never seen anything quite like this."

Tom cursed internally.

* * *

After the excitement over the black hole had died down, Ilania completed her assessment, they permanently locked the classroom, and that was that.

Evidently, Hogwarts had a number of sealed rooms, walled-up closets, and hidden dungeons where magical errors were kept. A _large_ number. It was a wonder the castle had not yet dissolved into a pile of antimatter and base elements.

Tom had hoped the year's first Slug Club meeting would reorient his focus after losing an entire classroom, which he was told had never happened to a teacher in their first year in the entire history of the school. Which was just bloody wonderful. He planned to use the Club to launch a wave of recruitment that carried through the year, at the end of which he would have amassed a small army of followers.

But he couldn't even get the damn thing started on time, because Slughorn was late.

The Club's new potentials were seated around the large table in the Potions Master's office, twelve older students, supposedly the best Hogwarts had to offer.

Half of them were Slytherins, and half were from other houses. The Slytherins sat together on one side of the table and were whispering to each other and throwing rude looks at the other students as if they had a moral imperative to embody every stereotype that existed about their House.

Tom was grading quizzes, because that was a thing he did now, and praying that Slughorn would turn up. He had no desire to lead the meeting himself. The attendees were merely prospects, and he needed to be able to assess them properly.

The Slytherin boy beside him caught his eye and leaned in close to talk to him like they were old friends. "Sir," he said quietly, "my father used to tell me stories about the Slug Club. And he said- he said there were never any girls."

"Well, now there are girls."

"And he said that it was only ever Slytherins."

"Things change."

"And he said Professor Slughorn used to give them gin and cigars."

"I'm not giving you gin and cigars."

The door burst open and in came Slughorn. "I have gin!" he announced.

He set a giant bottle on his desk and casually flicked his wand. Glasses started to appear, and once the gin had poured itself, he passed it around and conjured a few plates of food from the kitchens.

He took his seat beside Tom and surveyed the room like he was choosing from a human dessert tray filled with potential celebrities. "Welcome! As most of you know, I am Horace Slughorn, Potions Professor and proud founder of the Slug Club."

A frustrated-looking Hufflepuff raised her hand.

"What is it, dear?"

"I'm just a bit confused, sir. What exactly is the point of this Club?"

One of the Slytherins snorted. "Figures you wouldn't know," he muttered.

The girl folded her arms and glared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Slughorn sighed. "Not again."

"The Slug Club is supposed to be for Slytherins," said the boy. "Everyone knows that."

"Yes, because Slytherins need _more_ special treatment," the girl shot back.

"The Club," Slughorn said loudly, cutting through the noise, "is meant to give young, brilliant, ambitious minds a chance to network and expand their career prospects."

Or, Tom thought to himself, to drink and gossip about the faculty. And apparently smoke cigars. _He_ never got cigars. When did Slughorn ever give out cigars?

"Perhaps some introductions? Let's go around the room, shall we?"

They took turns introducing themselves, and when it appeared that they were not sure why they were invited, Slughorn chimed in.

"Miss Sinistra recently submitted a paper that was accepted into several scientific journals - I have a number of contacts in higher academia - and it was most impressive, from what I hear. What was the topic?" He turned to the girl, who looked like she did not trust anyone around her, which was probably wise.

"'The Measurement of Absorption Spectra Using Semi-Enchanted Mass Lunascopic Astrometry," she mumbled.

Not even Tom knew what the hell that meant.

"Er- right," said Slughorn. "And over here is Mister Calloway, who has shown unique command of elemental charms. I have never seen anything quite like it."

Controlling elements was relatively difficult, and mastering it required impressive skill. Tom took note of the boy's name.

"Hexes, not charms," the boy said. "I like hexes. And fire. I like those two things. I make a lot of fire hexes."

Tom erased the boy's name from his mind.

This went on for a while, and when they had finally made it the whole way around the table, Slughorn looked expectantly at Tom.

"What?"

"Introduce yourself," he whispered.

"They have me for class. I see them every day."

Slughorn threw him an exasperated look and cleared his throat. "And this is Professor Riddle, as you all know. Professor Riddle was one of the Slug Club's most prominent members. Weren't you?"

"That's not really-"

"And," he continued, "I'm sure not many of you know this, but Professor Riddle graduated with some of the highest N.E.W.T. scores the school has ever seen! _And_ he was given a Special Award for Services to the School."

"What'd you get that for?" one of the students asked.

"Er- problem solving," said Tom.

Then a Slytherin girl pointed at him. "Aren't you the teacher that's dating Hester Hopkirk?" she asked rudely.

Slughorn stared at him with less than mild concern.

"No," Tom said, rather forcefully. "That is a false accusation. I do not fraternize with-"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's true," the girl insisted.

"I AM NOT-"

"Let's move on, shall we?" Slughorn said gently, elbowing Tom in the arm.

The meeting was all over the place after that. Two of the students got into a heated argument about outer-planet astronomical vectors, which no one stepped in to break up because no one knew what they were talking about, and the fire hex boy had stolen the remaining gin and disappeared. Meanwhile, the Hufflepuff and Slytherin that had fought earlier had now advanced their feud to glass-throwing and jinxing. That was when they decided to call it a night.

"Other than a slight accusation of teacher-student impropriety, that went fairly well!" Slughorn declared as he waved them all out.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, "were you not around for the last twenty minutes? Did you not see the complete and utter chaos?"

"Eh? That was pretty tame compared to my last first meeting."

"You're not seriously thinking of inviting those... children to the party, are you?"

"Of course! Well, maybe not the hex boy, but the others seemed fine. Speaking of the party-"

"No."

"Do you have-"

"No."

"-a date?"

"Goodnight, Professor."


	8. Have a Drink

She stared at him.

He ate some soup.

She stared at him some more.

He opened the paper.

She continued staring, so he held the paper up slowly to block her from view.

"Tom."

"What?"

"We're going to the Halloween party together."

"Are we?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

Well, that was easy. Now Slughorn could stop pestering him about it.

Satisfied with his answer, Ilania sat down beside him (which he knew she was going to do, but he was still annoyed by it) and pulled a sandwich from the plate in the middle of the table. For someone who had seemed infatuated with him at the beginning of the year, she sounded rather indifferent about the whole date thing.

"Good," she said. "I didn't want to have to go alone. I normally avoid Slughorn's ridiculous parties, since they always end horribly, but Norman Bekele is going to be there, if you can believe it."

"Who?"

"Astronomer. He's got some brilliant ideas about... well, nothing that would interest you."

"Cheers. Wait, what do you mean 'end horribly?'"

She shrugged. "Slughorn likes to employ a 'no glass left empty' policy at those things when it comes to his adult guests. Trust me, at least one person will leave with a black eye, or a cursed limb, or a lawsuit."

He rather hoped he would have managed to convince Cornelia to go with him, as a party was the perfect setting for subtle interrogation. But Ilania would do, he supposed. Other than a mysteriously classified stretch of time working in America on some unknown project, he didn't find much in his investigation into her that would have been of interest to him. But a date was a date. Maybe he could finally figure out why her mind read like a physics textbook.

Curious, he made a cursory glance into her current thoughts and-

BABIES.

"Merlin," he swore out loud.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She gave him a suspicious look. "You're acting odd today. Anyway," - here came the gossip - "did you know Peggy's pregnant?"

That made sense. "I did not know that."

"Everyone's talking about it. I guess she's due in the spring. She and her husband are very excited."

"Wonderful." He didn't even know Peggy was married. She wasn't exactly on the top of his investigation list.

"Also, did you hear about poor Ozy?"

"Who?"

"Ozy. Ozymandius."

He shrugged.

" _Fogg_."

What the hell kind of name... "Oh, right. What about him?"

She shook her head grimly. "Apparently he's having trouble with his wand. All he can seem to do right now is conjure flowers. He almost accidentally impaled a student yesterday with a beautiful bouquet of red roses. And it won't stop, no matter what he does. He thinks he'll have to get a new one. I can't imagine."

"How unfortunate."

* * *

He waited for her at the end of the corridor, praying that the night would go quickly and that there would be no bloody dancing.

She arrived a few minutes later, wearing a dress of deep blue that was quite flattering. She also had a thick book in her arms.

She looked him up and down and smiled. "Hello."

"Hello. What is the book for?"

"Oh, I want Bekele to sign it. It's the text he wrote on extra-solar astronomy."

She took him by the arm and they headed down the corridor, which was draped in black fabric and lined with tall, metal candelabras. The candles they held gave off an eerie orange glow that did not brighten the space at all.

When they arrived at the entrance the curtains parted on their own, revealing a spacious room packed with people. Ilania scanned the crowd the moment they entered and gasped. "There he is!" she whispered, pointing to the far corner near the windows.

She disappeared into the sea of people.

It was much grander than any of the parties he remembered, though he did not remember them much, most likely because he would stay only for the minimum acceptable amount of time in order to be seen, then vanish. That was not an option this time, but it was still highly tempting.

The room was draped in the same black fabric as the corridor. From the ceiling hung a massive, spider web-shaped chandelier that held hundreds of those odd orange candles and was rotating slowly. Live spiders dangled from the bottom.

One end of the room was taken up by a fully functioning bar. There was another wall lined with drinks, and several waiters flitted through the crowd, offering even more beverage options. Ilania was not incorrect about Slughorn's determination to cause mass inebriation.

"Drink, sir?" asked one of the waiters, who looked like he would not have cared if the entire castle blew up at that moment and killed them all.

Tom took one of the tall, thin glasses and sniffed at it. He was adept at drinking socially, or at least appearing to do so. He'd always avoided outright intoxication at all costs, however. He did not care for anything that impaired his ability to monitor and control everything around him.

Then again, he hadn't been in control of _anything_ around him for a while now.

He tasted whatever was in his glass. Some extremely strong variation of chardonnay. It seemed tolerable.

Ilania was deep in conversation with her newfound infatuation, an elderly, slightly hunched man that looked like something between a university professor and a desiccated corpse. He did not want to intrude, mostly because he had no interest in learning anything about extra-solar astronomy.

There was always the option of joining Slughorn in his carefully crafted circle of potential long-term benefits, otherwise known as celebrities, but that would most likely necessitate talking to them, and he had less desire to meet the whoever of whatever Quidditch team than he did learning about extra-solar astronomy.

He drank a bit of chardonnay and watched the other guests carefully.

**-Drink 1:**

Most of the students from the Slug Club had made it, and he noticed that the Slytherins were expertly navigating the crowd and doing the thing properly, while the other members stayed huddled together, looking nervous. Thankfully, there was no sign of Hex Boy.

And evidently, the feuding Slytherin and Hufflepuff members had made up at some point, because they were snogging in the dark corner behind the bar. How nice.

He made his way slowly across the room, wondering if it was acceptable to completely abandon the date that had completely abandoned him the moment they arrived, then deciding not to care.

He caught sight of Cornelia. She was drifting from person to person, almost as if she had a predetermined list, and the more important they were, the longer she stayed. Some people seemed to recognize her and greeted her like an old friend, and others appeared mildly uncomfortable in her presence.

He decided not to waste any more time on her, hoping instead that Lestrange would uncover something actionable. Besides, there were plenty of other people-

"Professor?"

The Slytherin girl that had accused him of impropriety during the Slug Club meeting was suddenly in front of him, demanding attention.

"What do you want?"

She looked down at the ground. "I just wanted to apologize for the other day. I was wrong - you're obviously not dating Hester Hopkirk."

"Brilliant. Thank you for apologizing _after_ you'd spread that rumor everywhere."

"It was such a silly idea. I mean, she's obviously not good enough for _you_."

"It is a ridiculous idea. I would never- wait, what?"

"So," she purred, "if you're not dating Hester..."

"If you do not leave my presence right this second I will remove your head and send it to your parents through the post," he threatened quietly.

The girl shot him a nasty look and stormed off.

He took another large drink and cursed the fact that the entire female student body was determined to embroil him in some horrific underage scandal.

**-Drink 2 (a.k.a. "Drink 1"):**

Music had started to play from somewhere - eerie, foreboding music that seemed to fill the room with suspense and violins. The crowd quieted down as the already dim lights dimmed even more. Near the back of the room, a stage appeared with a blue spotlight above it, and Slughorn stepped onto it and opened his arms wide.

"Welcome! It's so lovely to see you all again. Now, tonight's special guest needs no introduction. Allow him to take you away on a wonderful, sonorous journey."

What the hell did that mean?

Slughorn hurried off the stage and a tall, thin man appeared. He was dressed like he couldn't decide what to wear and had just thrown everything on at once in order to avoid the decision altogether. After a few seconds he started to sing in a loud, operatic voice.

 _Loud_.

It sounded as if he were in the process of attempting to scream while also rolling down a hill.

But the audience was captivated. Hypnotized. _Seduced_.

Apparently, all Tom needed to do to gain a loyal following was learn how to sing loudly.

He took a drink and wondered when the party was supposed to end. He had a significant amount of homework to grade over the weekend and... was... starting to worry that grading homework was not necessarily conducive to taking over wizarding Britain.

 _Dear god_. The last time he was at a Slughorn party, he'd left at the earliest possible moment to continue planning for his next Horcrux. This time he was hoping to leave at the earliest possible moment in order to _go back to work_. He took another drink.

**-Drink 3 (a.k.a. "Drink 1"):**

There was a smattering of familiar pureblood sympathizers colluding near the bar, and he wandered over to them. They'd been a part of his circle of associates at school, and had been considerably loyal and enthusiastic at the time (at least after some gentle persuasion), though none of them had made much effort to keep in touch with him after he'd left.

The bastards.

What a perfect time to remind them that he was still around.

"Hello, friends," he said smoothly. "Lovely to see you here."

Orion Black's eyes bulged at the sight of him, and Henry Mulciber nearly dropped his drink. Bill Macnair eyed the exit.

He noted with satisfaction that no one _Cornelia_ had talked to had shown an overwhelming desire to run for their lives.

"Hello er- sir," Macnair stuttered, obviously unsure of what to call him and settling on something respectful-sounding.

Tom smiled. "Macnair. Can't remember the last time we talked."

"It was just after my graduation. You- er- you threatened to kill my entire extended family."

"Oh, yes. That's right. How are they, by the way?"

"Fine, fine." He looked like he wanted to jump out a window.

"And Black, how are the Blacks?"

Black rubbed his neck and looked around nervously. "Same as ever," he mumbled. "I mean, I know you don't… you don't particularly like the family-"

"Nonsense! What gave you that idea?"

"You called them a useless, pretentious plague of greedy nepotists."

Why was he not remembering all of these enjoyable conversations he'd had?

Macnair interjected. "Are you still living in London?" he asked Tom.

"No, I work here, actually. I'm a professor."

They looked at each other in confusion.

"Professor?" Black questioned nervously. "Of… children?"

Why was it always so difficult for anyone outside Hogwarts to understand what "Hogwarts professor" meant? "Yes," he stated rather forcefully.

"Do you find it enjoyable?"

"Yes," he lied. "Very rewarding."

Black nodded. "That must be… So… Henry and his wife are having a baby," he said quickly, literally pointing at Mulciber in an attempt to take the attention off of himself.

"Is that so?"

Mulciber threw Black a subtle look of loathing. "Er- yes. In the spring. A boy."

"Wonderful. Perhaps I will have the honor of teaching him someday."

Mulciber looked as if there was nothing in the world more terrifying.

Macnair glanced around the room and then leaned in close. "So, what name do you go by now? I mean, should I be calling you-"

"I have to be careful, obviously. I've built a persona around my old name, one that my colleagues here have come to respect and-"

"Tom!" called Ilania from one of the tables. "Get over here, you prat."

"Excuse me," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink in frustration and walking away.

**-Drink 4 (a.k.a. "technically Drink 2, but we'll call it 1"):**

Ilania was standing with Peggy at one of the many tall tables scattered throughout the place. Both of them had their eyes narrowed and were looking at him like they were deciding how best to carry out his execution.

"Is there a reason you are shouting insults across the room at me?" he inquired.

"Peggy told me what you said to Minerva."

"Did she?" he asked loudly, glaring at Peggy. Why was this still an issue?

"What were you thinking?"

He didn't bother responding because he felt he shouldn't have had to tell _one more person_ that it was a bloody misunderstanding.

"Well?"

He shrugged.

She made a "tsk" noise. "Unbelievable."

He wasn't sure what she wanted him to say. "I am not sure what you want me to say."

"Did you at least _try_ to apologize?" Peggy demanded.

"Several times. Almost got the whole way through once, too." He remembered suddenly that he had planned to curse Beery at some point. Missing limb, perhaps? Removal of the mouth? That would shut him up.

"Well, I suppose, as long as you made an attempt," Ilania reasoned.

Maybe he could replace the man's entire head with a bowl of hydrangeas.

"Anyway," Peggy said to Ilania, "how awful do you think the inspections are going to be this year?"

Make him forget everything he knew about plants? That would be downright cruel. Could work.

"Not sure," said Ilania. "I'm willing to bet they're still not happy about the Quidditch pitch catching fire last year."

 _Replace_ a limb _with_ a plant. Wait, why were all his workplace curses flora-themed?

"I suppose the length of the inspection will depend on when they arrive," Peggy said.

 _Blood curse_. Every full moon, he'd be forced to turn into a rosebush. It was perfect. Tom took a celebratory drink.

**-Drink 5 (a.k.a. "Drink 1"):**

There was suddenly a large amount of shouting coming from the couple at the table beside them. They watched as the man yelled something about "being unreasonable" and the woman slapped him across the face. She then turned to leave and he followed her, shouting the entire way through the crowd and out the door.

Tom laughed.

Ilania and Peggy glared at him.

"What?"

"Anyway," said Peggy, "they'll probably arrive in mid-November. That only gives us about two weeks to prepare."

"Prepare for what?" he asked.

"For the inspection."

"What inspection?"

"What- were you not paying attention ten seconds ago?"

"No."

She rolled her eyes. "The one the Ministry does every year that we always somehow _just_ manage to fail. They get more and more intrusive every time they visit."

Oh, yes. He remembered now - the Ministry inspections that were completely, one hundred percent his fault. "Right. How exactly do those work?"

"Well," said Ilania, "first they'll inspect the castle to record any safety issues-"

He snorted.

They stared at him in confusion.

"Sorry," he said, taking another drink, "it's just that I don't see the point of a safety inspection at a school where the students carry around lethal weapons and are regularly trying to kill each other while the castle arbitrarily decides to change its layout so frequently that the teachers can't even keep up with it."

"-and... then... they review the classes," Ilania finished, looking at him with concern.

"How much have you had to drink?" Peggy asked him.

What a stupid, baseless, utterly offensive question. "This is my first glass. Though I appreciate your completely unwarranted concern." He hoped the sarcasm was evident.

It was. They both shot him looks of disgust and walked away.

**-Drink 6 (a.k.a. "Drink 1"):**

Thank Merlin he _had_ been careful enough not to succumb to inebriation. The other party guests were starting to show their lack of inhibitions: quite a few couples had joined the Slytherin and Hufflepuff in finding dark corners in which to do things they would probably regret later, and a significant number of people had begun to dance.

Fools.

He wandered over to Slughorn, figuring he might as well get the Slughorn part of Slughorn's Evening of Slughorn over with.

"Professor!" said Slughorn, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and guiding him into the circle of unknown faces. "I see you did not bring a date," he whispered covertly.

"I did. She disappeared. Twice."

He frowned. "Eh, close enough. Anyway... Everyone, this is the newest addition to our staff at Hogwarts, Professor Riddle."

He started to introduce Tom to people who he assumed were important in one way or another, though he was not paying enough attention to assess them properly. It was a shame, really, because he probably could have made some useful contacts.

Eventually, Slughorn wandered away and people started introducing themselves.

"The name's Tobias Misslethorpe," said a man dressed like a Muggle banker. "Editor of _Witch Weekly_." He took Tom's hand and shook it. "Charming to meet you, Professor. So. I hear you're new? How long have you been at Hogwarts?"

What a dumb question. "Seventy-three years."

"Er- right. Say, do you think you would be interested in doing a profile piece for our Young Bachelors feature?"

"I definitely think that I would not be interested in doing that."

"Oh... Well, we're doing a large spread on academia in our spring issue, if you're interested in providing a few quotes...?"

"I am even less interested in doing that."

Tobias blinked stupidly at him and then walked away.

The next one was just as annoying.

"Quentin Constantinides," he said with obnoxious enthusiasm. "Chaser, team owner, philanthropist, et cetera. But you probably already knew that."

"Sure."

"And you are...?"

"Tom Riddle. Professor. Et cetera."

"Brilliant! Smashing. What's your team, Professor?"

"I don't have one."

"Oh, I see. Not a Quidditch fan then?"

"No. I spend most of my time comfortably pretending Quidditch does not exist. I find that preferable to actually having to think about it at all."

"I'm sorry?"

Slughorn had appeared again. "Sorry, Quentin, old chap. I need to borrow the Professor here." He pulled Tom away and Tom went willingly.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Slughorn said excitedly.

"Brilliant."

"This is Maria," he announced, pushing Tom in front of a short, well-dressed woman. "She works in the Office of the Minister for Magic. Thought you two might get along."

Then he disappeared again, the bastard.

"Nice to meet you," the woman said, holding out a hand, which he took and kissed politely. Or awkwardly. One of the two.

She seemed to like it either way.

The Ministry was always a fine career option. Why did he never go into the Ministry? He had so many questions.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"Oh, well, I mostly help the Minister with scheduling and organizing..."

He was bored already.

"...and record daily briefings and such."

"Does your position hold any sort of power?"

"Not really..."

"Are you in a role that could offer positions of power to other people?"

"I can't hire people, no."

"Do you, at some point, imagine yourself being in a position of significant power?"

"No, I really like what I do now..."

He looked at her for a moment. "Well, Maria," he said, "it's been... something."

He walked away.

He'd finally finished his glass of chardonnay, or what he thought must be a full glass, since the thing was constantly full, and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. Better safe than sorry.

Then he nearly collided with Ilania, who had appeared out of nowhere.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"I was looking for you," he lied.

"Does looking for me entail standing around idly and drinking enough to kill a small herd of Thestrals?"

As if he would be so foolish. "I've barely had anything. I don't even have a drink right now. Clearly you are confused."

"Clearly." She looked at him pointedly.

Before he could shoot back a witty retort there was a large crash near the bar. Two men had apparently begun to fight, and they were throwing slurred insults at each other while the intoxicated crowd watched them like it was a spectator sport.

"See?" she whispered. "Like I said, every one of these parties ends horribly." She handed him her glass. "I'm going to bed. Hopefully I won't be able to hear this; my quarters are on the floor above."

She disappeared for a third time.

He wondered vaguely why no one was stepping in to stop the fight that was now the focus of everyone's attention. _He_ could have stepped in and stopped the fight, but what would be the point? It wasn't his business.

**-Drink 7 (a.k.a. "where the hell did this come from?"):**

He took a drink from the glass in his hand that he did not remember having before and watched as the men started to duel, their wands slicing violently through the air. But in their drunkenness all they were able to really do was send their spells in random directions all over the room.

The bar went first. Bottles and broken glass exploded everywhere, and the counter caught fire.

The tables were next. Blown away by a poorly cast propelling spell.

Then one of them managed to hit the chandelier on the ceiling. The chain that was holding it started to slip, bringing it closer and closer to the ground, until it stopped. It swung back and forth, creaking loudly as the single link that held it to the ceiling started to give way, and everyone retreated to the edges of the room and stared at it with bated breath.

Well, if it was going to go anyway, Tom thought he might as well speed things along. He had homework to grade. He flicked his wand and the entire thing came crashing down.

People screamed as metal and candles and spiders went flying everywhere. It was a bit of an overdramatic response, really, since they all knew it was going to fall. What were they expecting?

After the chaos died down, he realized he could have just as easily cast a spell to _secure_ it to the ceiling. Though, if they didn't want it to fall, they should have used magic to secure it in the first place.

Oh, well. It wasn't like he'd killed anyone. He took a drink and started to plan his escape. Three hours was long enough for this sort of torture.

**-Drink 8 (a.k.a. "well, shit"):**

He made his way through the throng of people and out into the poorly lit hallway, where he experienced a sudden and unpleasant bout of dizziness.

He realized, as he looked back at the mess he'd left, that there was a small, minuscule, infinitesimal chance that he might have had a bit more to drink than he'd thought.

Unacceptable. What was that spell to remove alcohol from the bloodstream? He couldn't remember, because he'd _never had to use it before_. Bloody Slughorn.

He'd made it about halfway to his quarters when he saw the shadow of someone moving in the hallway ahead of him. He inched forward quietly along the wall until he was close enough to identify them, while also using the wall to keep himself upright. A bit more of the latter than the former, possibly.

It was Dumbledore. He was walking extremely slowly down the corridor, looking like he had no idea where he was going.

Normally, Tom would have been very keen to throw him some snide remark, but snide remarks were beyond his abilities at the moment.

"Sir, what are you doing?"

Dumbledore turned and looked at him, smiling benignly. "Walking, I believe."

Was he intoxicated too? "Why are you doing that?"

"Well, usually it gets me from one place to another."

Fair enough. "Where are you going?"

"Can't be sure, friend. But you know, I think we're in a castle?"


	9. Three Out of Five Isn't Bad

There was a potion - dreadfully easy to make and an essential inclusion in any decent wizard's personal stores - that, when imbibed, instantly removed the lingering negative effects of any sort of inebriation.

But Tom did not have any of this potion. Because he had never needed it before. Because hangovers had never been a problem before. And even if he wanted to brew it, he couldn't, because at that moment there was not a single fucking thing on this earthly plane of existence that could convince him to actually stand up and walk anywhere.

He had made it back to his flat after the party, amazingly, and had collapsed on or somewhere near the bed. He then proceeded not to move for, quite possibly, days.

At least that was what it felt like.

He had a wand... somewhere. Maybe he could conjure something. But what? A glass of water? A cold compress? A hole in space-time so that he could go back to his younger self and curse him to oblivion for ever agreeing to go to that stupid, horrible excuse for a social event?

As if the universe was answering him, or laughing at him, there was a loud tapping noise at the window.

The owls, he had realized a while ago, had launched a fully-fledged conspiracy against him, and were determined to make his life hell. They knew. They knew now was the perfect time. Perhaps they were omniscient.

The tapping continued, and he was fully aware that it would never stop, not even for the Apocalypse, which would have been nice to have at that moment. So he found his wand and managed to open the window from the bed.

The owl flew in and landed on the duvet, all two pounds of feathers and pomposity hopping up to his face and sticking out its leg. He took the tiny scroll it offered, and then it hopped back toward the window, leaving a nice mess on the bed sheet before flying out.

Still not bothering to sit up, he unfurled the tiny paper.

_Need more time. Unexpected issues. Going dark for a while._

_-The Killbliviator_

He regretted ever allowing Lestrange to choose his own operative name.

* * *

Hogwarts had been teaching young witches and wizards for almost a thousand years. It had an impressive graduation record. What was even more impressive was its survival rate, especially compared to other magical schools.

Mahoutokoro, for example, suffered through a long period in the eighteenth century where roughly a third of the student body routinely disappeared without a trace, and it took authorities three years to finally figure out that the new giant birds they used to carry the primary students to and from school had been poorly trained, and were dropping children willy-nilly into the Philippine Sea.

An acceptable survival rate for magical educational institutions was about seventy-five percent. For centuries, Hogwarts' survival rate was ninety-five percent. Within the past decade, however, it had dropped to around 91.2 percent, which was still considered commendable. Thus when students went missing, the staff did not tend to fret right away (which was also likely the reason they were not at one hundred percent).

Tom was not aware of this. So when several first-year Ravenclaws did not show up for class one morning, and none of the other students had any idea where they were, he was the only one to really make a fuss about it, despite technically being the single person responsible for the school's recent 3.8 percent drop.

It wasn't that he cared so much as he didn't want to be held liable in any way.

The three missing Ravenclaws weren't the last. On Thursday, a normally studious and vocal first-year Slytherin was conspicuously absent from his afternoon lesson, and upon being asked where he was, the other Slytherins responded with shrugs and "I haven't seen him since Sunday."

And Tyre mentioned in passing in the staff room on Friday that he noticed one of his first years had missed that morning's class.

"Probably a few spells gone wrong, or a virus going 'round," he had said after Tom questioned him.

"Is no one looking for them?"

"They'll turn up eventually, son. They always do. No need to fret."

When he was a student Tom had found Hogwarts to be a fascinating, whimsical place full of mystery and wonder. As an employee he found it frustrating, dangerous, and very poorly managed. The staff seemed to take a hands-off approach to almost everything outside of blatant disciplinary issues, until something was either burning down or blowing up. Or melting.

Had he paid a bit more attention when he was a student he probably would have noticed, but he'd been too busy _benefiting_ from the teachers' hands-off approach to care.

On the next Monday, a little over a week before the Ministry was due to arrive for their inspection, someone finally brought the issue to Dippet's attention. Together the teachers searched the castle and grounds, motivated mostly by the threat of the inevitable failing grade they would receive if the Ministry were to show up amid a regional missing-child search.

By Wednesday they'd managed to find three of the first years - or, to be more specific, two and two-thirds. One had somehow merged himself at the molecular level into a wall behind a tapestry while trying to hide from bullies, and had to be extricated carefully using advanced separation charms. Another had attempted to make herself taller, but overshot her goal by about ten feet, and had been hiding in the Forbidden Forest, where she blended in perfectly as a tall, thin, hormonal tree with self-esteem issues.

They never could figure out exactly what the third child had done to remove his legs below the knees, but at least he'd been found.

There were still two children missing, but Dippet had marked it down as a success ("three out of five isn't bad!") and the searches ceased. Focus now turned toward the inspection and other end-of-term issues, one of which would become an unbearable nightmare for Tom.

Despite a few false starts, he had made considerable progress incorporating the Dark Arts into his lessons, and he was proud to say that almost all of the students in the fifth year and above could probably do a considerable amount of damage in the outside world, had they wanted to.

And his classes were very enthusiastic about learning and practicing what they were careful to call "advanced methods of personal defense."

The only problem was that, in addition to absorbing the material, the students also had to be tested on it.

In a mid-term exam.

A mid-term exam that had to be approved by the Headmaster before it was given.

So, while not having done anything to prepare for the mid-terms before November (in other words, _making_ them), he had also dug his own grave by not teaching much of anything that could pass as acceptable on an exam. Or anywhere, for that matter.

He felt like he should have been warned about this.

Or maybe he had been.

The walk to Minerva's office, while necessary, was also slightly annoying. He still had not properly apologized, so he didn't expect her to be too keen on helping him, but he was desperate. Not desperate enough to outright beg for help, but desperate enough to perform some well-timed Legilimency, should the need arise.

Maybe there was a neat, organized little file inside her head somewhere titled "How to Make a Mid-term Exam."

The door was open and she was sitting at her desk, which appeared considerably less chaotic than the last time he'd seen it, though it did include an odd array of cups with wiggling tails and limbs, as if someone had molded a bunch of animals together and stuck them in a kiln. He knocked on the door frame to get her attention.

"Hi, Minerva. Do you have a moment?"

She looked at him briefly, her face blank. Then she shrugged. "Sure. Come in."

He sat down across from her and, by force of habit, almost attempted another charming smile. But it seemed out of place. Desperation was the way to go. _Please help me, I'm so lost_.

"I see you survived Slughorn's party," she said.

"Lucky, I suppose."

"Did you have a good time?" She sounded like she was holding back a laugh.

"Yes, it was lovely."

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "How much of it do you remember?"

"Not enough to have any reason to think it was not lovely," he muttered.

"I see. Well, what do you want?"

What was the polite way to say "I've been teaching my students nothing but the Dark Arts for weeks just to spite Dumbledore and now I have no idea what to test them on without being discovered?"

"I may have," he began, hoping he sounded worried and pathetic enough, "a slight problem with my mid-term exams."

She blinked at him. "You haven't made them yet, have you?"

"No."

She did not look at all surprised, which made him feel relieved and offended at the same time and it was quite off-putting.

"It's not that difficult," she said, retrieving a folder from her desk - good lord, she really did have one - and sifting through the contents. "I have a template I like to use. Normally, you fill it out as the weeks go by, so that it's accurate, but that won't be an option, obviously." She handed him a large piece of parchment with an intricate, detailed, disturbingly intimidating grid on it.

"This looks very... thorough," he said with uncertainty.

"All you have to do is look at your exam plan from the beginning of the year, compare it to your lesson plan, then choose the topics that you actually covered and that have the most relevance to the closest standardized test."

"Brilliant." He had _some_ kind of lesson plan; he'd started writing things down once he was unable to remember what levels of gruesome violence each year's topics had reached. But that didn't help the fact that nothing he'd taught could be used. "If there is something I still want to teach... you know, before the exams-"

"You'll want to do it now, and make sure it's already included once you fill that thing out."

He sighed. "I see. Mind if I borrow this?"

"Sure- wait."

"What?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll let you borrow that on one condition. I'm still not happy about our last conversation, you know."

So close. "And that condition is…?"

"The first Quidditch match of the season is next Saturday," she said. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin."

"And?"

"And," she continued, right as the horrible realization of what she was about to say had hit him, "you're going to come with me."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Anything but that. He would steal the damn template if he had to. Scrap the idea of mid-terms altogether and give the students the memory that they'd taken them. Use the Confundus Charm on Dippet to get his approval. Anything.

"I'm sorry, but I honestly have no desire to watch a bunch of children fly poorly and throw balls into holes."

Minerva shook her head grimly. "Blasphemy. Please tell me you went to at least _one_ Quidditch match while you were at school?"

"Yes," he lied.

She did not believe him at all. "Really? Do you know how it's played?"

"Of course I do. Everyone knows how it's played. I just don't care for it."

"Right. How is it played?"

 _Shit_. He did not know a bloody thing about Quidditch and until that moment he had been fiercely proud of that fact. "I'm not going to explain how it's played."

She glared at him. Like a Christian glaring at an atheist.

"There… are… six-"

"Seven."

"Seven players and three-"

"Four."

"Four balls- fine, I don't know anything."

Minerva snorted. "An attempt was made, I suppose. Well, you'll get to see how it works on Saturday."

"I am not going to a Quidditch match."

She sighed. "Normally I wouldn't ask, but my... friends won't come with me anymore after last year."

"What happened last year?"

"Nothing," she said suspiciously quickly. "I suppose they just found it taxing."

How the bloody hell was that supposed to convince him to go? "I don't think-"

"See you on Saturday, then?"

Someday, hopefully in the near future, he would find at least one damn thing in this job that he could successfully control.

"Fine," he muttered.

* * *

He had been waiting for the right moment to retaliate against Gryffindor, and the upcoming match seemed to be the perfect time to do it.

No, he should not have been holding a grudge against a bunch of school children that he was responsible for teaching.

And no, he probably should not have planned petty revenge against them for something as trivial as a painted flat.

But he was going to do it anyway.

Everyone, even the teachers, knew that Gryffindors liked to party. And from what Minerva had told him, they usually did so both before and after every match, regardless of the outcome.

So, after a little espionage and gentle manipulation of the female bartender in Hogsmeade (and being painfully reminded that he used to conduct espionage and manipulation for actual, important endeavors, like taking over wizarding Britain), Tom made sure that all of the alcohol the students had stolen into the Gryffindor common room that Friday night included a special ingredient. And it would be very, very obvious the next day whether he had succeeded.

He had.

The Great Hall was filled with whispers and chatter during breakfast Saturday morning, and when Gryffindors started to trickle in, the reason became evident. Every single one of them was wearing a face of absolute misery, because every single one of them was completely green from head to toe.

What made it worse was that everything they touched turned green, too. So every child that had drunk even a drop of alcohol the night before suddenly found everything from their robes to their books to be distinctively and irrevocably green.

And finally, when the Gryffindor Quidditch team entered the Great Hall together, wearing matching Gryffindor uniforms of a deep forest green, Tom found it very hard not to laugh. The Slytherins, already in pain from laughing so hard, cheered the opposing team on for the remainder of breakfast.

"I will kill whatever pompous idiot Slytherin rich boy did this," Minerva threatened from the seat beside him. "No offense," she added. "I know that was your House."

"I am completely indifferent to Houses," he said.

Half an hour later they were making their way down to the Quidditch pitch, Minerva ranting on about misplaced Slytherin pride and Tom wondering if he could subtly catch the entire pitch on fire before too many people had entered the stands and what the acceptable amount of casualties was.

But no, the Ministry was coming. Sadly, it wasn't an option.

"-just because their daddies can afford to bail them out of jail when they're older," Minerva raged. "We never pulled such nasty stunts when I was Captain."

"You were a Captain?"

"Two years in a row," she stated with pride. "Won the Cup both years."

There were probably quite a few brilliant witches and wizards out there who could have accomplished so much for the magical world had they not wasted their time on such a useless and all-consuming hobby.

They climbed into the stands, which were disgusting and smelly and slick with moisture from the horrible, freezing rain they were about to sit in, and Minerva had to practically drag him into the Gryffindor section because she refused to sit anywhere else.

And so he sat, surrounded by surly green Gryffindors, trying to remember what this price was being paid for. Oh, yes. Exams. Hardly worth it.

Dee Carson walked out into the middle of the field and the teams gathered around her. Some words were said and she blew a whistle.

They kicked off the ground and rose into the air, then started zooming in all directions and tossing balls around and...

It was exactly what he thought it would be. Only colder. And with rain.

He had a vague idea of what was happening, but was focusing more on casting increasingly powerful warming charms. Minerva had left her seat the second the whistle blew and it only took about five minutes to figure out why her friends had no longer wanted to join her at Quidditch matches. She had begun screaming a barrage of increasingly vulgar taunts and criticisms that did not stop until at least half an hour in, at which point she sat back down and began to explain every detail of the game to him.

"…and no matter what, if the Snitch is caught, it's game over."

"Noted. How long do these things usually last?"

She shrugged. "A couple of hours. I think the longest game at Hogwarts was four days."

He didn't want to know that. She did not need to tell him that.

The game dragged on, because of course it did, and every time it looked like someone was going to get enough points or grab the Snitch or some other appropriately game-ending event, something else happened. It reminded him a bit of the senseless futility of life and the cold cruelty of an indifferent universe. Or torture. It was very much like torture.

Then finally, after an hour and a half of repetitive flying and throwing and screaming, it looked like the two Seekers had seen the Snitch (yes, he knew those words now, unfortunately) and were barreling toward it at full speed.

And then they weren't.

Out of nowhere, to the horror of the crowd, a small child appeared about ten feet in the air, and both Seekers had to swerve away to keep from hitting her before she fell to the ground.

It appeared they had found another one of the first years.

Four out of five wasn't bad.

* * *

Minerva's exam template was an ink- and paper-based torture device, crafted by the gods of the underworld purely for the purpose of filling the human experience with mild bureaucratic misery. Like the study hall schedule, but far worse, and not nearly as weaponizable.

He trashed it after the third attempt.

The only thing he could think of was to create tests that accurately reflected what he had taught, without anyone noticing that what he had taught was, quite frankly, a frightening mix of dangerous offensive magic and legally questionable and morally reprehensible theories.

Once he was ready, he headed to Dippet's office, noticing along the way, with satisfaction, that several bannisters, portrait frames, and tapestries had very recently taken on green hues.

"Ah, exams," said Dippet. "A great time to reflect on the progress one has made in disseminating knowledge."

"Sure."

"I will look these over and respond with an answer when-"

"Actually, Headmaster, I was rather hoping to get an answer now. I am very eager to begin drafting the tests themselves, and I don't want you to have to worry about such a trifle while the Ministry is here."

Dippet thought for a moment. "Fair enough," he said. "I don't doubt you've done an excellent job, anyway. From what I hear, the students are quite fond of you."

The students would have been fond of any teacher that taught them illegal magic, he was just the first.

The moment Dippet opened the folder, Tom raised his wand.

"I see here you've included basic physical attacks for the first years, well done."

"Thank you."

"Ah, object sentience in fifth year. Very clever. And I see the sixth years are learning how to cast augmented curses with larger areas of effect for maximum damage. Excellent."

He put the papers back into a pile and signed the top page. "Well, done, Professor. Good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

"Professor Riddle, may I speak to you for a moment?"

They were in the staff room, waiting for Dippet to arrive for the pre-inspection meeting of doom, and Dumbledore had appeared out of nowhere and cornered Tom by the counter.

"Yes, sir?"

"I am assuming you've noticed the problem Gryffindor House is currently having?"

"Oh, yes. The green thing."

"'The green thing.' Indeed. Well, Madame Sable can't seem to find any way to remove it, and Professor Slughorn has suggested that whoever brewed that potion must have highly advanced skills."

"Is that so?"

Tom knew what Dumbledore was saying. And Dumbledore knew that Tom knew what he was saying. But they were going to play the thing out properly, because that was what they did.

"Yes, and, oddly enough, I distinctly remember _you_ having an unpleasant experience with Gryffindors altering the state of your quarters."

"That did happen, yes."

"Might there perhaps be some correlation between your recent feud with Gryffindor House and their unfortunate pigment-related state of affairs?"

Before he could answer, Dippet entered the room looking distinctly disheveled. Dumbledore gave Tom one last knowing look before joining Dippet in front of the fireplace.

"As you all know," said the Headmaster, "the Ministry's 'Educational Task Force' will arrive at nine o'clock on Wednesday morning. They will complete their survey of the grounds and castle first, and then begin teacher reviews on Thursday."

He sighed, then glanced at Dumbledore before continuing. "This year, I am told, the Ministry has decided to base Hogwarts' facility and overhead funding upon the quality of our performance."

Quite a few teachers groaned at this.

"That is not fair at all," said Fogg.

"How does that even make sense?" Peggy demanded. "We're not up to standards, so they want to take away our ability to function properly? That'll make it even harder!"

It made perfect sense to Tom. It was clear that the Ministry sought to exert more control over the inner workings of Hogwarts, and they wanted to use failed inspections as an excuse to do so.

Dippet raised his hands to quiet the room. "I understand the frustration. Regardless, it is of _paramount_ importance that the inspections go well this year. We can't afford to have even a single-"

The faint sound of an explosion could be heard somewhere out on the grounds.

Dippet sighed.


	10. Train Wreck

"It was just a few tiny mistakes," said Minerva.

"Coincidences, really," Tom added.

Dumbledore sighed, looking wearier than normal, and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Maybe he _had_ been getting drunk and wandering about the castle in a daze. He appeared unusually stressed.

"Please walk me through it one more time," he said. " _Slowly_."

Tom and Minerva glanced at each other briefly before launching into the story once again.

* * *

Technically, it had started on Tuesday.

The castle had been permeated with an uncomfortable, frustrating, biting anxiety because, in less than twenty-four hours, the Ministry was coming.

Like an inevitable wave, an advancing army, the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, they were coming.

And no one was ready.

Least of all, Beery.

Monday's explosion had apparently been the result of Beery trying to reorganize the greenhouses to be somewhat more logical in setup, even though it didn't matter where anything was in those disgusting boxes of floral death, because it would always look like someone had just thrown a mess of leaves and dirt onto the floor and hoped for the best.

He'd had a series of recent accidents, as it turned out, owing partly to his nervousness about the upcoming inspections, but mostly because he'd been neglecting his most dangerous and ambitious magical plants for some unknown reason.

First, he'd failed to prune some Dementor-like shrub that ate souls or emotions or something similar, and several of his students had ended up with serious bouts of depression and paranoia. Then there were the Mandrakes, who, upon being ignored for weeks, decided they would mount a revolution, and proceeded to scream at anyone that entered the greenhouse, nearly killing several people. Thankfully, they were still too young, their protesting shouts of freedom mere youthful ideology and not outright political action.

Then Greenhouse Two had exploded after he'd moved a plant that emitted poisonous gas next to a plant that emitted a slightly more volatile poisonous gas.

And now he was jogging down the corridor in front of the library, flagging Tom down and gesturing for him to wait. He made it to where Tom was standing, outside the library doors, and put his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a marathon.

"I need-" he huffed, "I need you to teach my afternoon classes."

"No..." said Tom.

"Please? I have to- there's a- look, it's not hard. Just write down the notes on the board and then-"

"No..."

Beery looked to his right, then his left, apparently making sure they were alone. Then he leaned in close and whispered, "look, emergency subbing is usually done by the newest member of staff. That's just protocol. An unwritten rule. You know, 'low man on the totem pole-'"

"No."

"-and, well, I need some time to repair Greenhouse Two before the Ministry gets here..."

"No."

"I know you have Tuesday afternoons free, Riddle. Come on..."

Tom stared at him.

"Fine!" Beery growled, throwing his hands up in frustration. "What do you want?"

"I want not to have to teach Herbology."

Beery walked away grumbling something about unwritten rules and seniority.

Had Tom been anyone but Tom, he probably would have felt some sort of guilt about refusing to help a colleague. But he _hated_ Herbology.

In truth he hated a lot of things. However, he had a real, genuine disgust for Herbology. It was messy, tiresome, and ultimately useless. And the only things worse than the subject itself were the greenhouses. They were a series of low-ceilinged, glass-paneled torture chambers with poor ventilation that consistently smelled of either manure or dead bodies. On bad days, they smelled of both.

Thus teaching Herbology, even a single class, was an unacceptable scenario.

But that was just his first mistake.

Then, on Wednesday, everything fell apart.

The inspectors arrived that morning: four Spanish Inquisitors, dressed all in black and gray and looking like they'd just successfully conquered the world with bureaucracy and political correctness and refillable fountain pens. They never bothered to introduce themselves. Each one of them wore a smug look - the kind you wanted to punch off of someone's face when you saw it - as they casually announced that they would be "changing things up" this year.

"In order to maximize efficiency during this process," one of them explained to the teachers assembled in the staff room, "we are going to be conducting teacher reviews and site surveys simultaneously."

Wednesday was supposed to be their last day to prepare. Wednesday for survey, Thursday for reviews. Just as they had apparently done for the last four years. Why the sudden change?

They filed out of the room, knowingly leaving behind them a sense of foreboding and dread, and Tom could have sworn he saw one of them smiling.

Several minutes later, he walked into his classroom and she was already standing there, waiting for him.

She was a short, middle-aged woman, impeccably dressed and wearing a friendly smile that was carefully crafted and undoubtedly sat well within the requirements of Ministry policy. She looked him up and down as if she were already ticking things off of a checklist somewhere in her brain, and did so for almost a full minute before finally speaking.

"Good morning," she said congenially, "I am Inspector Jones. I will be reviewing your class today. No need to worry, I will stay out of the way, for the most part."

"For the most part?"

He had not wanted to be antagonistic. It was one of those situations where keeping one's mouth shut was the best course of action, and he thought he could handle it. He really did.

"Yes," she said simply, not bothering to explain. "If you don't mind, I have a few questions for you. Just some formalities, you know."

"Alright."

She flipped a few pages over on her clipboard, somehow managing to make the simple act appear menacing. "Name?"

"Tom Riddle."

"Subject?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"I don't remember seeing you last November. Is this your first year at Hogwarts?"

That was a relatively asinine question. "Yes."

"And... how old are you?"

"Why is that relevant?"

She looked at him like he'd just spat in her face. "Everything is relevant, Mister Riddle. Everything."

"Sure, but don't you have all of this information on file already?"

"What we have and don't have is our business."

"As is my age, apparently."

She stared at him. He stared right back. This would not end well.

At that moment, the bell rang, and children began entering the room, many of them glancing over at the inspector with worried looks. It was almost poetic that the class to be reviewed was the very first class he'd ever taught. Tilly gave him an encouraging thumbs-up from behind the inspector's back.

He had a good rapport with most of his students. This was because they appreciated his willingness to teach them Dark magic, which many of them knew was illegal (though, strangely, none of them cared). Because of this, he felt he could be straight with them about what was going to happen over the next week. So, during the previous week, he had made it clear to each class that the only topics they were to discuss were Hogwarts-approved ones.

Things started out fine. He began the lesson - a standard, safe subject - and the children were almost impressive with their questions and answers. They were really trying.

The inspector watched from the back of the room, her face blank, her Muggle pen flying furiously across the page.

Then, about halfway through the period, she held up her hand, interrupting him mid-sentence. "Forgive me, Professor, but I was hoping to speak to the students, if that is acceptable."

Without waiting for him to respond, she wandered over to a random Gryffindor and smiled her company-issued smile. "Tell me, dear, do you feel you've learned a lot from this class?"

Every word was loud and clear. Apparently, her one-on-one questions with the students would not be private.

"Yes," the boy said with confidence. "More than any other class."

Tom was rather surprised by that answer. They were really laying it on thick for him.

"Excellent. And do you feel you are able to ask questions?"

"Yes."

She moved on to a Hufflepuff. Meanwhile, the entire class watched her carefully in strained silence. "Do you feel that you and your classmates are disciplined appropriately?"

The girl nodded. "Oh, yes. We get loads of threats."

Too thick. Too thick.

"What do you mean, 'threats?'" the woman asked.

"Well, like, if we talk too much, we might get maiming. Or if we're caught passing notes, then hands cut off. Sometimes there's beheading, if we're really bad."

"I see..." She started to write.

Some of the other students must have realized the error. One of them spoke up. "We don't actually get punished, though. We usually calm down. It's a good system."

"Yes," said the inspector, looking at Tom, "fear can be a useful motivator. Though I find it more appropriate to dictatorships and organized crime than to the disciplining of children."

She moved on to the next child. "Tell me, do you feel your Professor is engaged enough with his students?"

The girl seemed confused by the question. "Yeah..." she said slowly. "Well, not engaged. But dating."

"I'm sorry?"

Tom tried to clarify before they went any further down that god-forsaken path. "No, she doesn't mean engaged. She means-"

"Let her speak," the inspector commanded, holding up a hand for him to cease talking. "Go on," she told the girl.

There was a dangerous rage building up inside him, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand this treatment before a beheading did actually occur.

"Well, he dated a student, but they weren't engaged, I don't think."

The inspector appeared genuinely surprised. "Dated?"

Tilly cut in, most aggrieved. "No, he did _not_ date that cow. He asked but then changed his mind because he follows the rules." She smiled at him encouragingly.

He shook his head. "I have never dated a student. That wasn't-"

"It shall be investigated," the woman said simply, every single word somehow sounding dangerously threatening.

"Do you feel," she asked one of the Hufflepuff boys, "that your professor is dedicated to teaching?"

"He's very dedicated to teaching. He didn't even waste time learning our names! Just jumped right in!"

It was like watching a building collapse in slow motion.

"He doesn't know your names?" She turned to him again. "How are you evaluating these students without knowing their names?"

"I know their names, of course," he said quickly, wondering how the bloody hell he'd be able to prove it.

She did not believe him. "I had a feeling we would see this sort of poor performance from the teachers. Seems I was right to expect it."

"You're wrong!" Tilly yelled. "This is the best class in the year! We learn stuff here no one else will teach us."

"Is that so, dear? Like what?"

Tilly looked horrified, realizing her mistake far, far too late. "Er- stuff," she answered lamely.

The inspector thought for a moment. "Interesting. Fear of speaking up, and uncertainty about the course materials. This does not bode well, Mister Riddle."

But the other students were just as eager to defend him.

"He has way more experience in the Dark Arts than Merrythought ever had!" said one.

"Yeah, we learn about lots more than boring, old Defense," said another.

"And he shows us the real effects of Dark magic, too!"

"Yeah, the really nasty stuff!"

There was silence after that, during which the inspector took in the information, processed it, and then rounded on Tom. "Professor," she said, looking at him with suspicion, "are you teaching these students Dark magic?"

Never had there been a more perfect symbolic representation of a train wreck in the history of the universe.

And, strangely, it wasn't the students he was annoyed with.

Before he could answer her, the bell rang. The children left slowly, almost all of them looking back at Tom and the inspector with apologetic, worried looks.

When they were alone, she repeated the question. "Are you teaching your students Dark magic?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are they telling me, in no uncertain terms, that you are?"

"They're not. They just meant-"

"It's a shame," she said with feigned concern. "This will be the school's fifth failure in as many years."

"You've reviewed a single teacher. How do you know we're going to fail?"

"Let's be honest, Mister Riddle. Hogwarts has been sliding downhill for a long time now. It's no surprise they have some Dark Arts enthusiast teaching Defense."

"'Dark… Arts… enthusiast,'" he repeated in disbelief.

"We will have no choice but to reorganize."

"Reorganize? You can't do that."

"We can do whatever we feel is necessary. Don't you think it's time for a bit of change? This place is in dire need of modernization."

He glared at her. It was the kind of glare he reserved for enemies. For people he wanted to destroy. "If you think I'm going to let you-"

"'Let us?'" She smiled. It was the smile of someone who knew that they had absolute power over something and, as a result, feared nothing. "You better be careful, _Professor_ ," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "or you and your coworkers might just be looking for new jobs this summer."

It happened so quickly it was almost imperceptible. One second, she was eyeing him with that smug superiority she so expertly projected, just waiting for him to challenge her, and the next second, she was slumped over on the floor, unconscious.

"Well, shit," he muttered.

At least he hadn't killed her. A few more seconds of rampant arrogance and he would have killed her. Happily.

But thanks to his impressive self-control, he now had a serious problem. He glanced around the room, trying to come up with a plan. Disposing of bodies was one thing. Disposing of bodies that were not yet dead was another. Maybe he should have just done the thing properly and gotten rid of her altogether. She needed to disappear until he could decide what to do.

There was a closet in the back of the room that he didn't really use which, in that moment, was perfect for temporary victim storage. He levitated the inspector, opened the door, and placed her carefully inside.

"TOM!"

He slammed the door shut and whirled around to find Minerva standing in the doorway, breathing heavily with a look of terror on her face.

"I need your help," she pleaded.

"With what?" he asked, flicking his wand behind his back to lock the closet.

"I've had a- well... There's been an incident." She seemed almost frantic.

"Calm down and tell me what happened," he said while guiding her out into the corridor before the inspector could wake up and start banging on the door.

She took a few calming breaths. "I was being reviewed. First class! So early in the morning - how is that fair? Anyway, one of my students may have accidentally missed his target a bit, and…"

"And?"

"And, well, he transfigured the inspector into a badger."

Tom snorted. "I'm sorry?"

"It's not funny!" she yelled. "The damn thing ran off before I could transfigure it back and now I can't find it! Him. It."

"So, you need help looking for..."

"A badger, yes."

A faint groan sounded from inside his classroom. "Right," he said quickly, "let's go."

They scanned the third floor, then moved up to the fourth, where Minerva's classroom was. Then the fifth, then the sixth... and they found nothing.

On the seventh floor they came across Peggy, who was leaning against her closed classroom door, looking almost as pale and horrified as Minerva.

"Peggy, what happened?" Minerva asked, looking behind her through the small window in the door and into the classroom, where students were talking loudly and pointing.

"I made a horrible mistake," she breathed, looking like she was going to faint.

"What did you do?"

"I- I punched an inspector."

"Why?"

"Well, he was asking me questions - a lot of questions. And I was getting flustered. And then he asked... He asked why I thought it was a good idea to have a child and a career at the same time. And I just sort of... lost it."

"And you only punched him once?" Minerva asked, sounding disappointed.

"What if I fail?" Peggy cried. "What if I'm the reason we all fail again?"

"Somehow," Tom said, "I don't think this incident will be what makes us fail." He walked past her and opened the door. "I'll take care of it," he told them.

Once strong memory charm and a few calming words later, Tom and Minerva were back on the hunt for the missing man-badger. They performed a few locating spells to search the upper floors, but they revealed nothing. Eventually they ended up outside.

"You would think a man that was transformed into a badger would still have enough intelligence to seek out help instead of running away," Tom wondered out loud.

"I have found that the general shock of suddenly becoming an animal tends to push rational thought aside for some time until they come to terms with their new state. Or they go mad and lose their humanity completely."

That was horrifying in a fascinating sort of way. He never realized before how much psychology was involved in turning people into animals.

After several minutes of searching outside, they found it next to one of the greenhouses, sniffing and digging at the grass. When it saw them approaching, it hissed and growled and raised its hair at them.

Minerva raised her wand to transfigure it back, but without warning, one of the other inspectors came walking down the hill toward them. Tom kicked the badger into the greenhouse and slammed the door shut.

She gave him a look of disbelief.

"What? At least we know where it is."

The non-badger inspector approached them and smiled. "Ah, Professors. Have either of you seen Inspector Jones? I cannot find her. Or Inspector Harden, for that matter. They were supposed to meet me here at ten o'clock to survey the grounds."

There was a loud growling noise coming from inside the greenhouse.

"No, sorry," said Minerva, guiding him away. "But perhaps we can accompany you on the survey?"

"Oh, well... It's not protocol, but I suppose, if they don't make an appearance..."

They walked with him through the grounds and toward the Forbidden Forest, and he asked an array of obnoxious questions along the way, which Minerva answered expertly.

"...but we are very strict about student access to this area," she was saying. "It is forbidden for all lower classes to even approach this side of the grounds."

"Brilliant," the inspector said, inching his way past the tree line. "It really is quite dark in there, isn't it?" He wandered further inside to explore.

That was the moment one of the greenhouses decided to explode.

"What was that?" the inspector asked, turning his head toward the top of the hill.

In what he thought was quick thinking on his part, Tom threw a loud, nasty curse deep into the forest, which made a sound like a cannon, threw a considerable amount of trees into the air, and pulled the inspector's attention away from the massive greenhouse fire that blazed like a bright, glaring beacon of failure.

Minerva looked like she wanted to slap him. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed as the inspector scanned the interior of the forest for the source of the noise.

"Did you _want_ him to see the giant, flaming destruction of school property that is currently filling the skyline? Because we can turn right around and show him, if you prefer."

She shook her head. "Tom, all you did was cover up an explosion with another explosion. Either way, we look ridiculous. And he's going to see it anyway when we go back."

"Oh." He hadn't thought of that.

"God," she muttered, staring at the greenhouse in horror, "did we just kill a Ministry inspector?"

"Well, technically, I think we killed a badger."

The distraction proved useless, of course.

"What in the world is going on up there?" the inspector demanded, making his way out of the forest and back across the grounds.

They could do nothing except follow him and wonder vaguely how much this was going to bring down their rating.

Beery was standing outside the remains of Greenhouse Four, a look of utter confusion on his face. Once the inspector was out of earshot, Minerva rounded on him. "Herbert, you arse, what did you do?"

He shook his head, utterly confused. "I moved those plants after the first explosion! They were safe!"

"What plants?"

Tom cut in. "Please tell me you're not talking about those ridiculous poison gas plants."

"Yes! After they blew up Greenhouse Two, I moved them!"

"Did you move them _away_ from each other?"

"Yes!" he shouted, clearly annoyed that they thought he could have been so foolish. "I put them on opposite sides of the building. They were nowhere near each other. Something must have knocked them over."

Something like an angry and traumatized badger, most likely. "Maybe you shouldn't have put them in the same greenhouse at all," Tom suggested casually.

"Well, if I'd had some _help_ yesterday," he said bitterly, "I might have thought it through more carefully." He walked off toward the castle, cursing and muttering to himself.

The inspector reappeared, apparently finished with his survey of the destruction. "Does this… happen often?" he asked, pointing to the rubble that was Greenhouse Two on one side, and the dying bonfire that was Greenhouse Four on the other.

"Not often, no," said Minerva.

"Well, at any rate… I think I should return to the castle. I must figure out where my colleagues have disappeared to."

Once he was gone, they searched the smoldering remains of the building, fully expecting to find dead badger bits, or perhaps dead human bits. But miraculously, the badger was lying a few feet away from the destruction, unmoving. Still a badger, but very much alive.

Minerva transfigured the thing immediately before it could move again, leaving in its place a peacefully sleeping civil servant.

Before they could deal with what turned out to be Tom's second unconscious body of the day, a loud horn sounded across the grounds. It was followed by the thundering of horses' hooves.

Centaurs.

They flowed out of the Forbidden Forest like water, dozens of them, lining up near the tree line and taking aim at the castle with their bows. A particularly muscular centaur moved forward and called, in an impossibly loud voice, to the castle and its residents.

"Hogwarts!" it shouted. "Know this! You have oppressed us, demeaned us, and today you felt fit to attack us!"

"What is he talking about?" Tom asked in confusion.

"I think he means your curse of distraction. You know, the one you shot randomly into the Forest like an idiot?"

Well, that was unfortunate.

The lead centaur continued with its needlessly dramatic war speech. "We centaurs have waited an age, and many an age more, to wage this just and necessary war against wizardkind."

"'Many an age more?'" Tom repeated. "Who talks like that?"

Minerva shushed him.

"Now that you have struck first, we shall take action. We shall show you the might of the centaur race in all its glory."

"Oh, please."

"Hush!"

"But we centaurs are fair and just. Bring to us your leader, the figurehead that speaks for you, and we will provide an opportunity for you to surrender. Do this now, or the kingdom of Hogwarts will experience our mighty wrath."

"Thank god the children are in class," Minerva whispered. "Hopefully they stay there. Maybe if we ignore the centaurs, they'll go away after they realize there's no one to fight."

"Either that, or they'll advance on the castle itself and attack everyone in it," Tom offered.

"Ah!" said the lead centaur suddenly, "a leader approaches!"

"What?"

They watched helplessly as another inspector - the one whose memory Tom had removed - meandered drunkenly onto the newly christened battlefield, offering the massive centaur army a friendly wave.

"What did you _do_ to him?" Minerva asked Tom.

"I removed his memory. That's it." Apparently, he must have overdone it a bit.

"Looks like you might have overdone it a bit," Minerva commented.

He sighed. "It's been an extremely stressful morning."

"Greetings, chaps!" they could hear the inspector saying. "I do believe I'm supposed to conduct a survey here, somewhere. Have you seen my partners, by any chance?"

The centaur William Wallace shook his head. "No. The time for surveys is over. This is war!"

The delirious inspector shrugged and smiled. "Fair enough!"

"Do you accept our declaration of war against the men of Hogwarts?" the centaur demanded.

"Sure!" he said happily.

"Then so it shall be."

Minerva made an impressively quick move with her wand, and before the centaurs managed to fire their first arrow, she yanked the addled inspector across the grounds and threw him over the greenhouses to the safety of the castle wall as she and Tom took shelter behind the still-smoking remains of Greenhouse Four.

"Well done," said Tom as arrows flew over their heads, each one a tiny, violent diplomatic disaster. "What are they even shooting at? There's no one out here but us."

Minerva was oddly silent.

"Do you know any Dark magic?" she asked suddenly. "Centaurs hate Dark magic."

He knew plenty of Dark bloody magic, but nothing that he cared to share with his new coworkers any time soon.

Unfortunately, it seemed he had no choice.

The shooting stopped, presumably so the lead centaur could pontificate at them some more, and he took his chance. He cast a spell that was so massive and powerful that it incapacitated every single centaur on the grounds and pushed them back across the tree line like leaves blowing in the wind.

Minerva stared at him.

"What?"

She kept staring.

_"What?"_

"Er- nothing. I think all the inspectors are safe now."

There was no doubt that they would all require memory modification. Substantial memory modification. "We're going to have to... adjust their memories," he said delicately.

"Well, obviously," Minerva spat back, once again showing off her slightly terrifying side. "We just need to get them all in the same place. Wasn't there a fourth one? I haven't seen her."

He gave her a look that was not difficult to interpret.

"Tom, where is she?"

"In... a closet."

"WHAT?"

"It made bloody sense at the time."

"Jesus Christ!" Minerva moaned.

"At least she's still human," he said defensively.

She glared at him.

* * *

"So, really," Tom said in conclusion, "it's all Beery's fault."

Dumbledore was silent for a while.

"You know," he said after staring at them for several uncomfortable minutes, "it's odd, if you think about it, that the inspectors did not appear to be at all worried about the events that occurred here this morning. Almost as if they'd completely forgotten about them."

Tom nodded. "Very odd."

"What's even stranger," he continued, "is that they have deemed Hogwarts passable for the first time in several years. They did not have a single complaint to make about us."

"Strange," Minerva muttered.

He looked at them both with that characteristically condescending Dumbledore Stare, then smiled a characteristically mocking Dumbledore Smile. Surprisingly, however, his words were neither condescending nor mocking. "I suppose we should not, as they say, look a gift horse in the mouth. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an exceptionally angry Chief Centaur to apologize to."


	11. Moonlight Serenade

12\. Why are prejudicial spells so highly scrutinized by authorities?

_Because they are prejudiced._

Well, she wasn't wrong.

8\. What is the quickest way to combat the physical effects of a hex?

_Hex the other guy first._

Sure. Why not?

11\. What benefits do blood pacts have over Unbreakable Vows?

_None. Never get yourself caught in an inescapable obligation._

Quite possibly the best response ever written. But in this context, completely wrong.

20\. What are the prerequisites for achieving full systemic reanimation in necromantic rituals?

_Make sure the entire body is present. Also, make sure the body is dead first._

Why would the "body" not be dead? Why would you even bother performing necromancy if the body wasn't bloody dead first?

4\. Identify the non-physical properties of a cursed object.

_It can make you think bad things. One time my mother bought this necklace and when she put it on it made her think that we (my brother and me) were the reason she drank so much but then when she took it off she still said we were the reason she drank so much but I think the necklace was cursed._

What the hell?

9\. Name a historical example of illegal transfiguration and the results of its use.

_Jesus._

He sighed.

Grading exams was much worse than grading anything else. And you only had a small window of time in which to do it. And there was nothing more annoying than seeing ten or twelve wrong answers to the same question and briefly panicking about the quality of your teaching, only to later realize that no, it wasn't you, the students were just exceptionally thick.

The practical exams had been... Well, no one died, at least.

It was his own fault, really. Teaching the Dark Arts left one with few choices for practical demonstration that did not lead to a large amount of newly cursed objects floating around the school, areas of his classroom being utterly destroyed, or pieces of furniture suddenly realizing they were alive and attempting to escape to freedom.

"You missed the bear, Moran."

"Do I get points off for that, sir?"

"Well, considering the fact that I just had to chase down a sentient and horribly traumatized desk and then subsequently murder it, yes, I would say you do."

Sometimes, the students were a bit overzealous.

"Anderson, I instructed you to perform a spell that would indicate to you whether the object is cursed."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that what you did?"

"N- no, sir."

"No. Instead of inspecting the object, you eviscerated the object. And now there is cursed bear all over my classroom."

"Yes, sir."

And then there were those who really thought they knew what they were doing.

"I am so, so sorry, Professor."

"Why would you even attempt something so destructive inside a _building_?" he demanded while holding the door shut with a sealing charm as the sounds of his classroom going up in flames vibrated through the wood.

"I practiced it, like, a hundred times!"

"It's _Fiendfyre_ , Smith! It doesn't matter how adept you are at it. It's still not an acceptable response to 'demonstrate an offensive spell that is silent in execution!'"

"Does- does this mean I get a zero, sir?"

"I'm not answering that."

On a positive note, the exams were surprisingly helpful in terms of recruitment.

Ever since the November Slug Club meeting, in which three Slytherins walked out in protest after a second Hufflepuff was added and they got to experience the unfortunate and fiery return of Hex Boy, who was somewhat upset about not being invited to the Halloween Party and wanted to let them know about it, Tom had decided to pursue recruitment another way.

Having every single student stand in front of him and perform Dark magic was a ready-made tryout, of sorts. And now, for the first time, he had a proper list. He just needed to figure out what to do with it. Maybe it was time to put his associates to work again.

But that meant sending a letter.

Letters were... problematic.

The problem was owls. He'd put it off for a while now because he worried that if he went to the owlery and saw them gathered in one place like pompous, feathery fish in a barrel, he'd fly into a rage and kill them all. But his plan required sending letters, and there was no other way to do it. Finally, on the Monday before term ended, he made his way there and hoped for the best.

He climbed the deathtrap of narrow, snow-covered steps that led up to the owlery and stopped when he reached the top. The inside of the building was carpeted with what looked like centuries of droppings - a clear message from the building's occupants that said, "yes, walk through our feces to get to us, you pathetic peasants."

And he did.

"Alright, you arrogant bastards," he shouted, "who is going to help me?"

They did not ignore him so much as produce a wave of hoots that could only be understood as laughter.

"Fine. I will kill all of you but one." He stunned a few of the tiny arseholes right off their perches to show his resolve. "Whoever's left standing-"

"Who are you talking to?"

Cornelia had appeared out of nowhere and was staring at him like he'd gone mad.

"No one."

An owl hit the ground behind him with a thud.

"I see. Don't mind me. I'm just going to steal one of those real quick before you... kill them all." She made a simple gesture with her hand and several small, fluffy wankers immediately flew down to offer her their services.

He hadn't seen Cornelia since Halloween. She had made herself quite elusive. This was a unique opportunity.

"So, did you get what you wanted out of the Halloween party?" he asked.

"No. Of course not. Leave it to Slughorn to have a party with hundreds of completely useless and unimportant guests."

"How inconvenient for you. What were you looking for?"

She studied him for a moment. Then she changed the subject. "You know, I've been to a lot of schools, and I have to admit, I've never met a teaching staff that was so..."

"Incompetent? Disorganized? Unrefined?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I was going to say 'British.'"

"Well, I hate to have to tell you this, but you are, in fact, living in Britain."

She rolled her eyes. "No, honestly, it's painful. You're all _painfully_ British. We had a student's arm melt off during a lesson and Slughorn's method of calming down a traumatized classroom full of kids that had just witnessed something gruesome was to make them tea and pretend it never happened. And it _worked_."

"Why are students melting their arms off in Potions class?"

She shrugged. "Things happen. Anyway, that's not the point." She finished tying her letter to the owl's leg and threw it roughly out a window.

"I'm not exactly sure _what_ your point is, to be honest."

"You should make that your motto." She turned to leave, but before she made it to the steps she added, "by the way, I heard you lost another classroom. Well done. You'll burn through the entire third floor before Easter at this rate."

* * *

Tom spent his first night of post-exam freedom in the library.

He was determined to return to the strategy he had mapped out at the beginning of the year – the one that had been disrupted so many times he had nearly forgotten about it. He assumed, with confidence, that it would be disrupted again at any moment, but at least an attempt would have been made.

Maybe it was a hasty assumption, but he did not expect anyone to care about what he was doing in the library after midnight on a weeknight, or what he was researching or why. He was a professor, after all. And the rest of the staff had their own problems to deal with. A considerable amount of them, in fact.

Of course, he also did not expect Albus Dumbledore to go walking by at two in the morning, glance at him sitting there with all his very secret notes displayed out in front of him, nod, and continue on without a word.

He cast a charm to hide everything he'd written and shoved it all into one of the books. Then, as he was closing the other eight books he had open, Dumbledore walked by again, going the opposite way and looking completely indifferent to his presence.

In fact, it was the same sort of look he'd had when Tom had found him in the hallway after the Halloween Party (which, until now, he'd thought had been a hallucination).

If someone that wasn't him had managed to curse, Confund, or otherwise incapacitate Albus Dumbledore, he wanted to know who and how.

After a brief search Tom found him near the Restricted Section, carrying a stack of books in his arms and muttering to himself.

"Sir, what are you doing?"

Dumbledore stopped, surveyed him for a moment, then said, "you know, I have always found that question to be inherently troublesome. 'What are you doing?' When asked, it suggests that the one asking does not understand the current action being performed, while, at the same time, assuming that whatever action is being performed is somehow his business." Then, in a strange voice, he asked, "what are _you_ doing?"

"Nothing," Tom responded before he could stop himself.

"Indeed." Dumbledore gave him an unfamiliar smile. "I am also doing nothing. My nothing involves books. What does yours involve?"

Tom observed him carefully. His curiosity was getting the better of him and, though he thought he might choke on the words, he asked, "are you alright, sir?"

"Unclear," Dumbledore said, placing his stack of books on a nearby table. "I've been assessing the situation and have not yet been able to make any definitive conclusions."

"Situation?"

"There are a few possible scenarios. Right now, I am partial to the idea that this is all an illusion, and that we are in some sort of lunatic asylum, unconscious, merely dreaming of being wizards. Though, this theory is difficult to test."

"What are you talking about?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You ask a considerable number of questions, friend." And with that, he walked away.

Tom stood there for a moment, thinking perhaps that he was dreaming. Wouldn't have been the first time he'd fallen asleep in the library. But no, he was definitely awake, which meant that something was very wrong with Albus Dumbledore.

He decided the best course of action was to follow, but by the time he made it out into the corridor, Dumbledore was gone. He walked quickly away from the library and toward the Great Hall, finding nothing but a few ancient ghosts drifting lazily through their permanent existential comas.

He had made it almost the whole way to the other side of the first floor before he heard something that made him stop.

Music was playing from somewhere close by. Muggle music. He considered investigating, but it really wasn't a priority considering there was an addled Dumbledore roaming-

That song was vaguely familiar.

The door to a small classroom near the entrance to the dungeons was propped open, and a light was on. Inside he found Beery, who was dancing by himself and humming along to the music that was coming out of a shiny new record player. He made to leave, thinking this was probably not something Beery wanted anyone to see.

But he was wrong.

Beery caught sight of Tom and his eyes lit up. "Ah, Professor! Up late? I can't sleep either." He continued to dance as he spoke, and it was extremely annoying. "I find a bit of music before bed to be very therapeutic."

"Fantastic. I'll just be going, now."

Beery shuffled his way across the room, moving slowly toward the door like a well-choreographed nightmare. "Do you dance?"

"No." This was why he had very few qualms about murdering people. Things like this.

"You should try it. The music drew you here, did it not?"

"No." Good lord.

"'Moonlight Serenade.' A classic. One of my favorite records."

That was it. "Moonlight Serenade." It had been the only song to ever come over the wireless that he'd actually liked when he was younger. And now it was being violently ruined for him by the image of a short old man humming to it while twirling like a ballerina inside an empty classroom at two in the morning.

He retreated toward the door before the dancing potato could get any closer.

"You know," Beery mused, "you're awfully uptight for someone so young. I know you're here for some secret purpose or other, but you could at least enjoy yourself while you're at it."

Tom turned around and stared at him. "I'm sorry?"

"You need to enjoy-"

"No, what do you mean, 'secret purpose?'"

Beery stopped dancing and shrugged. "Well, I find it hard to believe that someone as young and talented as you would be content with spending your entire career here. So, there must be a reason."

"What about Minerva? Or Peggy?"

"Ha. For some people, teaching really is a passion. I'll never understand it. And anyway, would you be roaming around the castle this late at night if you _didn't_ have some secret agenda? I know _I_ have one." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Tom thought for a second that he was going to have to incapacitate the man and dig through his brain to figure out what the hell he was talking about. But apparently, Beery was just unusually perceptive. "I do not have a secret agenda."

"Maybe not, but your misery does not go unnoticed. Now, shall we dance?"

Tom left without another word.

"I'm here every Thursday until term starts!" Beery called out into the corridor. "Come back when you've lightened up a bit!"

He should never have left the library. Now he was going to have nightmares about old men dancing and singing at him every time he thought of that song and that was not the sort of psychological torture he needed at the moment.

Resuming the search for Dumbledore was useless at that point. He decided to go back to his quarters and review what little information he'd managed to gather in his first night of research.

He made it as far as the Great Hall before he ran into Slughorn, who looked unusually happy and was holding three tiny, empty vials in his hand.

"Tom, my boy! How are you?"

"Fine, sir."

"Up late? Can't sleep? Troubled mind?"

"Sure."

"Nothing like a late-night walk to clear your head, yes?" He was talking unusually quickly, like he wanted to get everything out in one breath.

"Sure."

"Yes, that's probably it. Clearing your head. That's what I'm doing. I _think_ that's what I'm doing. You know, it's really quite dark in these corridors." He held one of the vials up to the light of a nearby torch to examine it. "You would think that was a safety issue."

"I suppose?"

"Honestly, it's almost completely black out here at night," he said, switching to another vial. "Can't see a thing. If someone wanted to kill me, they could walk right up to me and I wouldn't even know they were there until it was too late."

Well, something was clearly off. "Horace-"

"That's what you get for living in a castle, I suppose. That, and cold drafts that never seem to let up, even in the summer. It's funny how a thousand-year-old building can hold all sorts of powerful, ancient magic, but can't seem to get the temperature right."

"Horace-"

"Thomas."

After a few seconds his eyes went wide. "Wait! Is 'Tom' short for 'Thomas?' I've never asked."

"No. Are you alright?"

He examined the last vial. Tom wasn't sure what he was looking for – they were all clearly empty. "Oh yes," he said, still talking fast, "quite alright. Or something close to it, anyway." He started patting down his jacket, looking for something in the pockets. " _You_ seem somewhat troubled, though." He glanced at Tom and raised an eyebrow. "I mean, you _usually_ appear to be troubled, but tonight you seem especially sullen."

It was nice to know that everyone thought he consistently looked miserable. "I am not sullen-"

"Well, let's be honest, you never were a particularly cheerful person," he said, more to himself than to Tom.

"That doesn't really-"

"I was worried for a while there, you know, when you were younger. All the brooding and such. Well, most teenage boys go through a broody phase, but yours seemed particularly acute. Anyway, being antisocial does you no favors."

"I did not go around _brooding_ -"

"AH!" Slughorn exclaimed suddenly, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. He pulled a fourth vial out of a pocket, opened it, and drank the contents. "Now, where were we?"

"What is that?" Tom asked, pointing to the vial that was obviously the source of this weirdness.

"You know, I really don't think I should tell you that. Wouldn't make me look very good if I did."

"What?"

"Must be going! Lots to do."

Tom watched him walk away and wondered if he should reassess the theory that he was dreaming.

He headed back toward the staircases but didn't make it very far before he was yanked roughly into a room and the door shut behind him.

Why not? It certainly fit the theme of the rest of the evening.

"I need your help," said Ilania.

"At two o'clock in the morning?"

"Yes."

They were in a small room with a large window that took up most of the wall. She had several telescopes pointed toward the sky and an array of glowing metal instruments that were vibrating and making loud "ping" noises.

"What do you need help with?" he asked, wondering how this interaction was going to devolve into insanity.

"I know you're a _Defense_ Against the Dark Arts teacher, but have you ever... you know... dabbled?"

"Dabbled?"

"Dabbled. _Tried_ things. Attempted something that might not strictly be considered lawful. Experimented."

"No. Never."

She groaned. "Why is everyone here so useless?"

"Cheers. What are you trying to do, exactly?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, her instruments buzzing guiltily behind her.

"What are you trying to do, exactly?" he repeated with a sigh.

She hesitated for a moment. "Do you know what an amplifier is?"

"In astronomy?"

"Eh, sort of. I'm trying to build something that can hear into space, but the optimal window for launching my project is closing and I need to make some modifications before it's too late."

"Alright, I have two questions." Because this was getting ridiculous and also making him extremely curious at the same time. "One, why would you want to 'hear' into space?"

"To assist in the search for civilized life."

"I see. And two, why does that require Dark magic?"

"Because the charms we use to create such instruments are too weak to extend past Jupiter, and the magic I require to accomplish my goal doesn't technically… exist yet. Not without some legally questionable enhancements."

The experimental magic was intriguing. But the other thing... "Follow-up question. What will you do if you actually find 'civilized' life in space?"

"Contact them, obviously!" she exclaimed as if there could be no other answer. She sounded quite frustrated.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why?'"

Personally, he felt he understood the world quite well. Had a handle on it. There was no reason, in his mind, to add some new mysterious element that he would have to figure out and then possibly destroy. "I just don't see the point of-"

"'The point?'" she repeated, her voice getting louder. "The point is that there could be other beings out there, _right now_ , with advanced technology and the ability to travel through space. SPACE!" She looked frantic. "If they were out there, wouldn't you want to know?"

"Not really."

"Are you JOKING?" she yelled before grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "How can you not understand? Just imagine the possibilities!" There went the sanity. She appeared to be sliding down the scale rapidly from slightly obsessed academic to mad scientist.

He blinked stupidly at her. "Well, good luck, I guess."

"Good luck?"

He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere that's not here."

"Fine! Go!" she yelled after him. "Clearly you cannot handle the challenge and sacrifice of scientific discovery!"

He was perfectly fine with that.

Civilized life? He repeated the words in his head as he walked out the door. It was already difficult enough finding that _here_. Why look for it elsewhere?

As he made his way toward the marble staircase and the safety of his quarters, he noticed that the light was on in the staff room.

Now, any reasonable person that had just experienced entirely too much of their coworkers' personal affairs in the span of an hour and was likely close to being psychologically scarred would probably run home and remove those memories. They would not stop to investigate yet another sign of late-night activity as if nothing horribly disturbing was going to happen.

He wondered what being reasonable was like.

Before he had a chance to open the door, he heard a quiet voice from inside - Minerva's voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about! You should do it. You know you should. Do what? Please. As if you don't know."

Was she talking to herself? No, there was a second voice in the room, but it sounded exactly like hers. Perhaps a bit harsher.

"You have all the talent you'll ever need. All you require now is the motivation."

"I told you! I don't want to-"

"Yes, you do. You just haven't realized it yet."

There was silence. He wondered if she needed help. It sounded like she was being accosted by a moderately unpleasant and ambitious version of herself. He could not see what was happening but didn't dare open the door, as it was visible from every corner of the room.

Then the other voice spoke again. "Just consider, for one moment, that there might be more important things in the world than teaching and being a surrogate parent for hormonal monsters for ten months out of the year."

"This is what I do. I love my job."

"Yes, you love your job because you think it's the only thing you _can_ do. But let's be honest, there is not a single person here that can compete with you. Well, except maybe the old man. And the pretty boy. They'll be problems."

"Who are you talking about?" Minerva asked, her voice weak.

"Your most recent distractions," said the other woman. "The younger one will be easy to deal with."

"Deal with?"

"Yes. We both saw what he can do, but I'm not concerned. They all want the same thing. You can manipulate them any way you want, really. It's the old man I'm worried about."

Tom was very, very confused.

"I am not 'dealing with...' I will not- you can't actually think-"

"Do shut up, please. I've moved on. Now-"

"No! I am not having this conversation with you!"

"Yes, you are. You don't have the-"

There was the sound of something being slammed shut, followed by footsteps. Tom hid around the corner like a pathetic stalker and watched the door carefully. He could see her leaving, but it was _only_ her. No one else came out of the staff room.

He inspected the room carefully after she was gone, but it was empty.

Once again, he wondered if he was dreaming. But if that were the case, why would he have a dream about two Minervas?

There was... no need to answer that question.

And anyway, he was awake. Most assuredly awake.

So, as it turned out, almost everyone he worked with was insane. He'd had suspicions, of course, but it was nice to be given confirmation.

And yet, it was still better than working at Borgin and Burke's.

After a slow and contemplative walk to the third floor, he finally reached the door to his office and then stopped. Thought for a moment. Made a decision.

Yes. It had been a horrible night. He deserved something nice.

He was going to go back and steal that ridiculous record from Beery. He wasn't sure why he wanted it, but he wanted it. Twirling old man nightmares be damned.


	12. The Holy Book of Inbreds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Or, if you hate the holidays, like myself and my lovely MC, then happy end of the financial quarter! … which is likely to bring on an equal amount of anxiety for those in the financial sector... So, uh, happy… existence during winter? Whatever.

"Three-hundred and twelve."

"Not bad, Peggy," said Dee, jotting something down in a tiny notebook.

"It's twice what I had this time last year!"

"Ilania?"

"Four thirteen."

"Nice. What about you, Cillian?"

"Eh, just two thirty-eight. And Beery can't make it. He said to mark him down with three ninety-four."

"Got it. Minerva?"

"Seven-hundred and sixty."

"Good lord, woman!" Dee exclaimed. "How the hell-"

"There was a thing with fire hexes in a corridor... It's a long story."

"Alright... You're at the top now, I suppose."

"What are you doing?"

Tom had entered the staff room to find them all huddled around the Ugly Table and looking at each other with mild excitement.

"Ah, New Guy," said Dee. "We're updating our point totals before break."

"Your what?"

"Number of House points we've taken away from students," said Tyre. "We do it every year. Friendly competition. Highest at the end of the year wins a prize."

He wasn't going to bother figuring out the ethical ramifications of that.

Dee pointed at him. "You want in? How many points have you taken away so far this year?"

"None."

They stared at him.

"You... you've gone an entire term without taking away a single point?" Dee looked astonished. "How?"

He shrugged. "I don't care about House points. I don't find them to be a particularly effective disciplinary tool."

They all burst out laughing as if he had told an extremely entertaining joke.

"Oh, oh my," cried Peggy, wiping her eyes.

He was getting annoyed now. "What?"

"Son, the points system is the _only_ disciplinary tool that works," Tyre explained.

That was ridiculous. The points system was a waste of time and yet another distraction from rigorous study. A carrot and a stick, more suited to the disciplining of primary school students. He'd always thought so. "I highly doubt that."

"No, really," said Peggy. "Getting detention is one thing. That only affects you. But getting points taken away? That affects your whole House. And the shame that comes with it is a powerful motivator."

"So, instead of punishing students using specific, meaningful techniques, you _shame_ them into behaving?"

Dee nodded. "Sounds about right."

"What punishments have you been using instead?" Ilania asked with curiosity.

"Detention, mostly. I've removed some mouths and hands when appropriate. At one point I think I used a thunderstorm..."

They stared at him again.

"Tom," said Minerva, "those methods aren't really-"

"Wait," Tyre cut in, "I want to hear about the thunderstorm. Tell us about that."

"No, Cillian," said Dee. "We should not be promoting unapproved methods of discipline."

They looked at each other briefly, then broke out into laughter again. Well, all of them except Minerva.

"It's not funny!" she told them. "We have an approved list for a reason!"

They laughed even harder.

"Minerva, don't be such a prude," said Dee. She turned back to Tom. "Anyway, there's no doubt creative punishment is much more fun, but taking away points is just _easier_."

"Noted," Tom muttered.

"What about when you were a prefect?" asked Minerva. "Did you take points away then?"

"Not really." He'd spent about ninety percent of his prefect time taking advantage of the power it gave him and doing considerably _non_ -prefect things.

Though, now that he thought about it, his indifference toward House points as a student _was_ probably a rare opinion. Once, after a class, he'd watched Macnair curse a Ravenclaw with permanent baldness for making him lose twenty points during the lecture. And in fifth year, one of the Slytherin girls, Pucey, had almost been murdered when she lost fifty points for being found in the boys' dorm. The entire House had ostracized her completely, right up until graduation.

Maybe that was the real reason his students liked him so much. _No one loses points in Defense! You can do anything!_

The little bastards…

"What's the prize?" he asked, taking a seat at the table.

Dee smiled. "We only do money now. Pure, unadulterated coin."

"Yeah, ever since Grayson used that gift certificate to Madam Puddifoot's to spy on and subsequently harass the waitresses there," Ilania said with disgust.

"What's to stop any of us from just taking away points arbitrarily in order to win?"

There was a brief, awkward moment of silence.

"He doesn't know," Dee whispered.

"How does he not know?" said Peggy.

"Oh! He didn't get an orientation," Minerva explained.

"Kindly elucidate for me what the hell you're talking about?" he demanded.

"At orientation," said Minerva, "you get a brief explanation of how the points system works. It's sort of a closely held secret. Under no circumstances can students know."

"Know what?"

"Well," said Tyre, "let's just say it's impossible to remove points without a reason. Eh, I shouldn't say 'impossible,' but-"

"There are repercussions," said Peggy. "Horrible ones. It's a bit like the concept of karma, only instead of the universe giving you any punishment you may deserve, it's an ancient, omniscient enchantment. But we keep it secret because the students can't know that we don't have the power to take away whatever we want."

That was unexpectedly ominous. "'An ancient, omniscient enchantment?' How does it punish you?"

Tyre shook his head. "It's hard to say. But it finds a way. It _always_ finds a way."

"Anyway," said Dee, writing his name down in her notebook, "you may have a chance to catch up before the end of the year, unless Minerva has another corridor fire or whatever."

* * *

Three days before Christmas, the Great Hall had broken out into a revolting rash of decorations. In fact, it seemed the entire _castle_ was covered in ribbon and tinsel and enchanted bloody snow.

There had already been some ornamentation here and there since early December, but now it looked as if those decorations had spread and multiplied like a merry, colorful bubonic plague, and Tom wanted to set fire to all of it.

He _despised_ Christmas. It was at the very top of the Reasonably Long List of Things Tom Riddle Hated, right above Herbology and Herbology-related affairs. It had never been a particularly happy time for him, considering Christmas at an orphanage was basically the same as every other time of year, except the orphans were even _more_ harshly reminded than normal of the fact that they had very few possessions and that no one was going to buy them anything.

Also, his associates tended to disappear because, evidently, being part of a secret organization dedicated to the Dark Arts included paid holidays.

The only good thing about Christmas at Hogwarts had always been how empty it became. Most of the students and teachers usually went home, allowing him to take his time exploring the castle and to carry out certain tasks without having to worry about getting caught.

With the research he had conducted over the past week, he fully intended to take advantage of the emptiness. He just needed to get through the mandatory staff holiday dinner first, which he'd already tried to worm his way out of several times until he was told that his absence would be noticed and everyone would think less of him. That was how Slughorn had put it, anyway.

But on Christmas morning, he didn't even make it to breakfast before he'd experienced a minor psychological meltdown.

Almost immediately upon entering his office he noticed two small packages sitting on his desk. One was long and thin, the other one small and square. They were wrapped in shiny paper that depicted falling snow and twinkling lights, respectively. The tag on the larger one read:

 _Happy Christmas!  
_ _-Ilania_

It was a gift. How odd. He opened it carefully, unfolding the wrapping at the edges, and pulled out a sleek black box. Inside the box was the most opulent eagle feather quill he had ever seen.

He opened the smaller box, and inside was a note and an accurate, moving replica of a badger. The note said:

 _Happy Holidays! Thought you would appreciate this.  
_ _-Minerva_

He hadn't wanted anything. And he certainly never asked for anything. There had been no obligation on their part to do anything at all, so why?

Why?

Had he been expected to do the same? Because that was not a thing that he did. He did not hand out "gifts" unless they were symbolic items sent as thinly veiled threats or cursed objects sent as outright attacks.

There was a chance that an exchange of gifts was _expected_ among coworkers, and he simply wasn't aware of the tradition. The only coworkers he'd ever had were Borgin and Burke, and they had never acknowledged Christmas at all. They certainly never gave out gifts, unless he counted the extra hours he was forced to work manning the counter during the Christmas rush, which they were kind enough to pay him for. Though, why a shop filled with Dark objects and antiques would have a Christmas rush had always puzzled him.

Was this just something people _did_ in the workplace?

But that didn't make sense, considering he did not receive presents from every single member of staff. This suggested that it was not, in fact, a requirement, and that these two specific individuals chose to bestow gifts upon him of their own accord.

_But why?_

He was annoyed. Why would things like this not be discussed beforehand, agreed to by all parties, and scheduled appropriately?

Surely they were exactly what they appeared to be – presents from colleagues. Thoughtful gestures of good will. _Surely_ they had not been intended to cause any sort of anxiety.

...Or maybe they _had_ been. Maybe it was a test. Or perhaps they found him weak and wanted to weed him out, like pruning the leaves off a plant, and had decided upon some vague, indecipherable act of kindness as a way to slowly destroy him via a sanity-eroding crisis of conscience that would surely develop after he'd realized he had not reciprocated appropriately.

Maybe they were subtle threats. _We're watching you. We know where you sleep._

_Good luck interpreting this._

_Your move._

He could have been reading too much into it. They were likely nothing more than simple acts of kindness or symbols of friendship or whatever the hell presents were to normal people.

...Which meant that he would look like a complete arse if he did not reciprocate.

But did that not, in a way, trap him in an inevitable feedback loop of giving and receiving, doomed to throw well-meaning gestures back and forth like some horrible psychological tennis game until one or the other party died or failed to participate, after which all relationships between parties were destroyed forever?

No, subtle threats seemed like the most likely scenario. That was how he had always understood gifts, anyway.

The present that Slughorn had handed him the night before needed no interpretation. It was a book titled _Understanding the Mind of the Human Female_.

He really hated Christmas.

* * *

Somehow, the Great Hall had been packed with even more decorations overnight, as the amount of giant fir trees and baubles and snow had increased significantly. Walking from the doors to the teachers' table was like walking through a hellish maze of tidings and joy and maddeningly cheerful music.

The table had been rearranged into a single rectangle so that everyone could see everyone else and pretend like they were a proper group of friends when, really, every single one of them was only there for the food and the obligation.

They were all milling around, waiting for five o'clock. Ilania spotted him immediately and gave a cheerful wave.

"Happy Christmas!" she said.

"Happy... Christmas."

"Did you get my gift?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Yes..."

"I knew you'd like it! There's just something about an eagle feather quill that _screams_ refinement. I have quite a few of them."

"Yes, I liked it. Thank you." He watched her carefully for some expectation of reciprocity, but he did not find any.

He decided to test the waters. "I'm sorry, I didn't get you-"

"No, that's alright," she said, waving it off. "I love giving presents."

What the hell did that mean?

They were soon joined by Minerva. "Happy Christmas," she told them. Then to Tom she said, "did you like it? I thought it was funny."

Here, too, he did not detect any expectation of a return gift. "Yes, very funny. Thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Oh, don't worry. I just happened to see it and couldn't resist." She then turned to Ilania and thanked her for the eagle feather quill she had received.

What was happening here? What were they playing at?

Oh, this was torture. _Refined_ torture.

He was undoubtedly supposed to be feeling guilty for not having had the forethought to supply presents himself, and they were purposely exacerbating that guilt by saying they did not expect anything in return. It was all lies. Their strategy was weak. He saw right through it.

Next year, he would be prepared. Next year, he would return this psychological torture tenfold... or however that translated into "small, thoughtful gift."

They would not win.

Once five o'clock arrived he was careful to choose a seat on the opposite side of Ilania and Minerva for maximum surveillance. Dumbledore, he noticed, was conspicuously absent.

Strangely, it seemed that almost _everyone_ was there except Dumbledore, Dippet, and Peggy. And, of course, Cornelia, who probably felt that a Christmas dinner full of British professors was far beneath her. Tom had assumed that at least _some_ of the others would disappear for the holidays to visit family and do proper Christmas things, whatever those were. But apparently not.

"Horace, I'm surprised there's no elite, exclusive Christmas party this year," Tyre commented.

Slughorn grimaced, looking unusually tired, likely due to the after-effects of whatever the hell it was he'd taken the other day. "After the events of Halloween, I think I'm done with parties for a while."

"What happened at Halloween?"

"I'd rather not discuss it."

About ten minutes after the food had appeared, there was a loud cawing noise, followed by the sound of hooves. A moment later, a man came through the doors of the Great Hall riding on the back of a hippogriff like a knight on his steed. He was middle-aged, severely sun-burnt, and dressed like he had just returned from a safari that took place a hundred years ago.

"Bloody hell," Slughorn muttered.

"Greetings, friends!" the man said loudly, dismounting and bowing to them all. "It's been far too long!"

"Not long enough," said Slughorn.

The man held his arms out wide to take them all in. "I've missed you all terribly. So glad to be back." He took the empty seat next to Tom and then stared at him. "Well aren't you just _gorgeous_!" he exclaimed.

"Er- thanks."

"Silvanus Kettleburn," he said, grabbing Tom's hand and shaking it. "Care of Magical Creatures. And who might you be?"

"Don't answer him," Slughorn spat. "Maybe if he doesn't know your name, he won't be able to find you, and you'll be free from the torture of hearing his endless, meandering stories."

Kettleburn smiled brightly at Slughorn. "You love my stories, Horace. You're just too embarrassed to admit it. Ladies!" he sang, holding up his glass to Ilania and Minerva. "Looking resplendent, as always."

"Thanks, Silvanus," Ilania said dryly.

"She's going to marry me one day," he whispered to Tom, "she just doesn't know it, yet."

"I can hear you, Silvanus."

"Because you always listen to me. We have such a good relationship. It was meant to be." He laughed to himself. "Oh, yes. I like that response. Ten points to Kettleburn."

"Shut up, Kettleburn," Grayson shouted. "I'm not in the mood for your weirdness."

"Why Grayson! Still not dead, I see. How nice for you! Happy Christmas."

Grayson waved him off angrily. "Piss off you ruddy qu-"

"Professor Grayson, if you finish that sentence, I swear to _God_ I will remove your head and cook it for dinner tomorrow," Minerva warned. "And you had better _believe_ it won't be apples I'll be stuffing into that fat mouth of yours."

They all stared at her in silence. And a little fear. Somewhere behind them, a hippogriff purred.

"So... where've you been?" Beery asked Kettleburn, breaking the tension when no one else would.

Slughorn groaned loudly as, in an instant, Kettleburn seemed to shift into what could only be described as storytelling mode. "Well, I'll tell ye. There I was, at the start of my sabbatical-"

"Suspension," Slughorn corrected.

"-standing on the edge of Uluru, looking out across the endless Australian desert, contemplating the vastness of nature. And wouldn't you believe it-"

"I wouldn't," said Slughorn.

"-all the sudden, without warning, as if it were a sign from the heavens, a massive re'em-"

"Oh, _please_. You probably spent the last three months drunk on pukwudgie bile and murmuring to yourself while drooling on the floor of an Amsterdam hotel room."

"That is oddly specific, Horace," said Tom.

"And a smashing good time," Kettleburn added, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "But sadly, no. That was last year. This year, it was a re'em in Australia. And Scamander."

"Scamander?" said Tyre. "He's still roaming around?"

"Well, the man's only fifty-three, Cillian, so yes. Those of us on the lower end of middle age are still capable of field work, I'll have you know."

The rest of the dinner passed relatively quietly, with the exception of Minerva refusing to let Grayson say a single word and Kettleburn demanding to know absolutely everything about Tom. Tom gave vague and simple answers, but that only seemed to make the man ask _more_ questions.

No one had even mentioned the hippogriff. Apparently, it was in typical Kettleburn fashion.

* * *

The Headmaster's Study had never been difficult to break into, even when Tom was a student, especially given the fact that Dippet was fast asleep in some other random part of the castle about eighty percent of the time. Every time he'd managed to find his way in, the Sorting Hat had always been in there, perched on top of the familiar locked cabinet of banned books, peering at him somehow with that eerie, eyeless face.

But he'd never noticed the Sword before.

It must not have been there while he was at school. He knew almost every inch of this office, and he would have remembered seeing the Sword of bloody Gryffindor if it had been there.

It was there now, however.

It sat innocently inside a thin glass case underneath several snoozing portraits, almost as if it were trying to hide in plain sight. He examined it closely, feeling around the edge of the case for any sign of enchantments or curses.

"Headmaster!" came a drawling voice from behind him. "I love what you've done with your hair!"

Tom turned around slowly, his mind racing to come up with an excuse - which, he realized, would be much easier now that he was a teacher and not a student - but no one was there.

"Over here, you pathetic, half-witted son of a whore!"

It took him a second to see it: over the doorway hung a large, lavish portrait of a regal, dark-haired wizard who was sitting in a velvety purple chair. He had his arms folded and was eyeing Tom up and down, clearly unimpressed with what he saw.

"Who are you?" Tom demanded, pulling out his wand in case the situation necessitated large amounts of portrait-destroying fire.

"Well, gosh, I don't know! There's this thing, you see, down there." He pointed at the bottom of his frame. "It's got words on it, and I think it might say who I am, but I can't be sure. What do you reckon?"

Tom walked across the room and approached the portrait. When he was close enough, he was able to read a faint line of text engraved on a plate of gold: _Phineas Nigellus Black_.

"I take it you were a Headmaster?" he asked quietly, hoping their voices would not carry.

"No," said Phineas.

"No?"

"No, you see, they found my portrait in the street and thought it was nice, so they figured they'd hang it up in the office of the Headmaster of a magical school just for fun, even though every other portrait in this room is of a former Headmaster. Those barmy wizards! Very inconsistent."

"You're not funny," Tom muttered.

"Incorrect. I find myself extremely adept at humor. What are you doing in here?"

"The Headmaster sent me to retrieve something for him."

Phineas nodded. "Ah, yes. You'd be surprised how many students he sends in here to do the same thing. What are you trying to steal?"

"None of your business."

"Also incorrect. I am a Slytherin and a Headmaster. Everything is my business, you ignorant peasant."

"So, you were a Slytherin?"

Phineas sat up straight in his needlessly lavish chair and straightened his silver and green smoking jacket. "No. I lied. I just wear these colors because I like to blend in when I'm hiding in gardens. What's your name?"

Tom was tempted to shout out that he was the _Heir_ of Slytherin but realized it would be the stupidest thing he'd ever done. "Tom Riddle," he said, hoping the annoyance in his voice was evident. "I am a professor, and I don't have to stand here and take criticism from poorly painted art school projects if I don't want to."

"Riddle? Are you that prat Dumbledore kept warning Army about a few years back?"

"'Army?' And yes, most likely."

Phineas thought for a moment. "And now you're a professor, you say?"

"Yes."

"Well," Phineas sighed with a shrug, "Army never was the brightest."

"Actually, Dumbledore hired me."

"Is that so? Surely no ulterior motives there."

"Surely."

"What are you trying to steal?" Phineas asked again.

"I told you, nothing. I'm retrieving something."

Phineas nodded in understanding. "Of course. Of course. What are you retrieving for the Headmaster that we both know you're actually trying to steal, you pretentious, incompetent prat?"

"You are incredibly rude. Even for a Black."

"Why, thank you. Rudeness requires cleverness, you know. And I am _terribly_ clever."

"Please stop talking," Tom grumbled, walking back across the room to examine the glass again. He had no reason to waste any more of his time being berated by a portrait.

"Well," Phineas continued, "from Slytherin to Slytherin, I can tell you that that Sword isn't worth the trouble."

"How do you know I was a Slytherin?"

"Because Slytherins are arrogant, conniving little shits, the lot of them, and you certainly fit the bill." He thought for a moment. "'Riddle...' Don't recall that name being in the _Holy Book of Inbreds_..."

"The what?"

"It's a record of pureblood ancestry, which you would not be aware of as you are clearly not an Inbred. There's definitely no entry for 'Riddle,' anyway."

"What about Gaunt?"

"BAHAHA," he laughed loudly, causing some of the other portraits to groan in exasperation. "Gaunt! Bahaha! The inbred-est of the Inbreds! Worse even than us Blacks! I thought they'd died out. Or maybe I just hoped they did."

He really didn't want to say it but he went ahead and said it. "My mother was a Gaunt."

Phineas looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow. "I stand by my assessment."

Tom glanced at the other portraits. Every single one of them had their eyes closed. "Why are you the only one talking to me?"

"Because when I talk, these fools would rather pretend to be asleep or dead than acknowledge my existence - a situation I am quite comfortable with, to be honest."

A few of the other headmasters grunted in confirmation.

"Why did you never say anything when I came here as a student?"

"Because I hate students. Talking to them makes me want to stick a giant knitting needle into my brain."

"I can sympathize with that."

"Anyway, the students are never as interesting as the teachers," Phineas said casually, picking at his nails in refined Black Family pomposity. "Especially now."

"How do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Well, that Dumbledore appears to have started a habit of breaking in here as well. Not interested in swords, though, it seems."

Tom shook his head. "What are you talking about? What reason could Dumbledore possibly have to break into an office he already has access to?"

"Books, apparently."

He turned around to look at the old banned-book cabinet, which he now realized was slightly open. "But Dumbledore put half those books in there himself. He always-"

"No, no. Not _that_ Dumbledore. The other one."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Tom rounded on Phineas. _"I'm sorry?"_

* * *

There had been no sign of Dumbledore anywhere in the castle since Christmas, but no one seemed to think this was unusual, as he often traveled during the holidays. Tom had taken Phineas's claim with a grain of salt - the man was as overdramatic as he was arrogant. Still, what he had said made a strange amount of sense.

But where would a second Dumbledore have come from? If some brazen fool had decided to attempt impersonating Dumbledore through the use of Polyjuice Potion or something similar, it would likely not end well for him. And he wasn't being particularly careful about his presence, either.

There was also the question of motive. Why do it?

Tom was sitting in the staff room, deep in thought, waiting for some unplanned meeting to start. Minerva had shown up at his door just after dinner to tell him that Dippet was holding an emergency meeting at six in the evening and that no one knew why. He was somewhat suspicious of this, but it was not terribly out of character for Dippet, who seemed to believe that any question in the universe could be answered with a needlessly long, unorganized staff meeting.

But it was ten after six now, and the only people there were himself, Slughorn, and Minerva. Ilania had been there too, but she had disappeared right after Tom arrived.

They were looking at him with smiles on their faces, and he felt strangely cornered. Were they going to murder him?

Or was this a setup for… But no. No one would have any reason to think that today was anything other than New Year's Eve. Unless…

"Today's the thirty-first," Slughorn announced in what was starting to look like a monstrous betrayal.

Tom suddenly regretted every conversation he'd ever had with Horace Slughorn. "I suppose it is."

"New Year's Eve," Minerva sang.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "That is accurate."

"Someone told us it might be your birthday," she said mischievously.

He stared at Slughorn with absolute loathing, and Slughorn simply smiled back at him like someone who thought himself very clever and not at all a cruel and disloyal bastard.

"It is not my birthday."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. I don't have a birthday." He was fully aware of how ridiculous he sounded, but he did not care.

Slughorn gave him an exasperated look. "Everyone has a birthday, Tom."

"Not me."

They were grinning like idiots and it made him want to murder them and bury their bodies somewhere deep inside the Forbidden Forest. Why had none of them gone home? They had families, probably. Why were they _here_? Who spent New Year's Eve at work?

Was he supposed to know _their_ birthdays? Had he already missed some essential workplace tradition by not acknowledging them and now he was being punished because of it?

It was the gift fiasco all over again.

Except, unlike the gift fiasco - which he still hadn't completely come to a conclusion about regarding the intention - _this_ was most definitely meant to be torture.

Eventually Ilania came in carrying a cake with candles on it and Tom made to run out the door. But Minerva had already blocked it like a sadistic prison guard.

"Sit down," she commanded.

Somehow, in all his twenty-three years of life (twenty-four now, he supposed), he had only ever been subjected to the horrors of the "birthday" twice. Once, when he turned ten, the orphanage staff sang for him, and made the children that despised him sing too, and he'd hated it. Everyone had hated it. Then, in their sixth year at school, Avery thought he was clever by throwing a surprise party, and Tom still hadn't forgiven the arsehole for it to that very day.

He sat. The cake was placed in front of him, twenty-four twinkling candles floating above the icing like tiny, mocking fairies.

Then, like an expertly executed Cruciatus Curse, the singing started.

_"Happy birthday to-"_

"No."

_"Happy birth-"_

"No."

_"-to you."_

"Merlin, no."

_"-py birthday dear Tom-"_

"Good lord."

_"-birthday to you."_

They all stared at him expectantly. He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, refusing to take part in such utter ridiculousness.

Minerva poked him in the back. "Don't be stubborn," she said.

He stared at the candles while calculating the consequences of incapacitating his coworkers and blowing up the staff room in retaliation. The fire… The destruction… Yes, the punishment would fit the crime. And this horrible table would finally be gone.

"Birthdays are mere trivialities. There's no need to waste time-"

"Shut up and blow out the bloody candles, Tom," said Slughorn.

He cast a spell in his head and the candles disappeared. They looked at him with annoyance.

"What? I'm sure wherever they are, they've been extinguished. That counts, doesn't it?"


	13. Sex Education Part 1: Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: a HUGE thank you to AFamiliarWitch for helping to bring this chapter into existence!

There was a forest in the castle.

No one knew where it came from. It was not there in the evening, but by the morning it had removed a significant portion of the fourth and fifth floors, putting in their place a large collection of tall, unearthly trees and shrubs.

Luckily, term would not begin for another few days, and there were no classes to cancel or relocate. But that also meant that they only had a few days to get rid of the thing.

It had been kind enough, in its suddenly coming into existence, to wedge itself perfectly into the confines of the two floors without breaking through to the outside. It made it easy to cordon off the area. All they had to worry about was repairing the catastrophic damage to the walls and classrooms it had caused once it was gone.

The staff was able to spend an appropriate amount of time examining the new small-scale ecosystem in detail, though they did not manage to solve the mystery. At first it was assumed that one of the students had executed an elaborate and impressive prank. But the way that the castle's ancient stone walls morphed so seamlessly into earth and roots was beyond anything any of them were familiar with, so a student managing it was unlikely. And Beery confirmed that he could not identify a single plant before insisting that, frankly, the whole thing was too unsettling, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

He had a point. When Tom had inspected the anomaly himself, the very air around it was heavy and humid and buzzed with unfamiliar magic. These things disappeared the moment he left the soft forest floor and stepped back onto the hard stone of the castle corridor. And the trees themselves looked… off. They had a bluish tinge to them, and the leaves were almost gray in color.

It was quite impressive in an infuriating sort of way.

There was really nothing to be done. Tyre had tried his best to dispel it with every enchantment known to wizardkind, but nothing could penetrate that odd, sparkling, vibrating fog that seemed to permeate the area.

"Know what this reminds me of?" Tyre had said to Grayson as they tried one last time to pry forest from stone with separation charms.

"Eh?"

"Reminds me of that thing in '07. What was it?"

"Ah. _The Ooze_."

"The what now?" asked Tom, who had been assisting them while also determining whether there was any chance the forest might be useful to him in some way (it wasn't).

"The Ooze," Grayson repeated. "Started as this stain - a water leak, like - on the ceiling of one of the seventh-floor classrooms. But there was nothing on the floor above. It was just… there. On the ceiling."

"Aye, and it spread. And spread. And everything it touched just melted into more Ooze. Three students we lost, I think, that year."

"Four," Grayson corrected. "And they had to completely reconstruct the seventh and eighth floors."

Tyre shook his head. "There was just so much of it."

Tom sighed. _Killer ooze_. Why not? The laws of magic obviously did not mean anything at Hogwarts. "Did you ever figure out what it was?" he asked, analyzing a leaf that had no right to exist.

The men looked at each other. "You know," said Tyre, scratching a horn, "I don't think we ever did. I just assumed it was a potion gone wrong."

"'Potion gone wrong,'" Tom repeated flatly. "And then what? Thrown up onto the _ceiling_ for some reason?"

Both of them shrugged.

"Let's hope the same thing doesn't happen here," he said, thinking that it probably would.

"Oh, we'll have trouble regardless," Tyre assured him. "Any time you block something off, students will try their hardest to get into it. I predict we'll have a small colony of underage tree-dwellers hiding out here by the end of the year."

"Either that, or it kills them," Grayson said with complete indifference.

* * *

A new term started with (as everything did) a staff meeting. Hogwarts staff meetings normally lasted multiple hours, and actual information was provided only when Dippet had remembered to bring his notes, if he had made any. And they always ended in either angry shouting or a strained, depressing silence. They were becoming almost as insufferable as sitting through a Quidditch match.

Tom decided that if he ever managed to build a substantial cadre of followers, he would punish them with staff meetings.

This particular one became a nuisance before it had even started.

Early in the morning, he had opened his door to go down to breakfast and found the caretaker standing there, inches away from his face.

"'Bout time," the man said in a rough voice - the first words Tom had ever heard him speak.

"Have you been standing here this whole time, waiting for me to open the door?"

"Aye."

"Why didn't you just knock?"

"Aye."

He handed Tom a crumpled piece of parchment and then walked away.

The note was written in Dippet's shaky hand:

_Pre-term meeting changed to 7:00_

A nine o'clock meeting changed to seven, and it was currently half-past seven. Wonderful.

He needn't have worried about being late, however. Everyone was still waiting for Dippet to arrive when he got there, and Peggy was handing out muffins.

"I was woken up at seven for this?" Slughorn mumbled, looking even worse than he had at Christmas dinner. "Where's Dippet?"

"Asleep, most likely," Dee offered. "Writing all those notes probably took a lot out of him."

Ilania came through the door looking frantic, scanned the room, then hurried across to the opposite end where Tom was standing near the counter.

"Hide me," she said, ducking behind him.

"What? Why?"

"Kettleburn."

Kettleburn walked in a moment later – _strutted_ in, to be more accurate – and greeted the entire room in a booming voice. "Good morning, fellow professors!"

No one responded.

"Miss Vance!" he called, pointing at Peggy dramatically. "What glorious, delicious, beautifully crafted delight have you brought us today?"

"Muffins," she said flatly.

"Excellent, excellent."

"May I ask why I am being used as a human shield?" Tom inquired as Ilania shifted him a bit to the right to avoid Kettleburn's gaze.

"Silvanus is… Well, he's nice and all, but..."

"But?"

She sighed. "He's been unusually obsessed with me recently, and it's just easier to avoid him. I have no desire at all to deal with his 'I've made love on seven continents; you won't find anyone better' speech today."

"You didn't seem too worried about talking to him at Christmas dinner."

"I had a giant table between us and a Minerva in case he needed to be incapacitated. I'm defenseless here."

He glanced in the direction of the fire, into which Minerva was currently staring. "I think Minerva would be a much better shield than me-"

"No," Ilania whispered, "she's got her own problems."

"What problems?"

She did not answer. She wouldn't let him move away, either.

"Don't you think this is a bit childish?" he muttered.

"No, Tom, it's strategy. But… now that I think about it, you may not be the best- Oh no, here he comes."

"Well, look at _you_ two," Kettleburn said quietly. "I don't think I've ever seen anything so _delicious_ this early in the morning. Except maybe these muffins. Ha!"

Dear lord.

Ilania came out from behind Tom and stood beside him. "Hello, Silvanus," she mumbled in a resigned voice.

Kettleburn's eyes darted between them quickly, like he was doing some sort of calculation in his head. "Oh," he said. "Are you two…? You're not…"

"What?" said Tom.

"Yes!" Ilania sang at the same time, looking like she'd been handed an unexpected gift. "Oh, yes. Sorry, Silvanus. I am taken." She grabbed onto Tom's arm tightly, either to sell her story or to warn him not to ruin it. Probably both.

He really needed to just stop coming into the staff room altogether.

Kettleburn looked genuinely surprised and disappointed, but it only lasted for a second. "Well!" he said, smiling brightly again. "My loss!" He wandered off to bother Grayson, who was fast asleep on the sofa, and Ilania finally released Tom from her painfully tight grip.

"Thanks," she said, sitting down at the table.

He glared at her.

"Oh, relax. I'm sure in a few days he'll forget about it. Either that or he'll try to proposition us both. He seems to have experience with that sort of… thing."

"He- both- what?"

She ignored his stuttering confusion. "I assumed he got the message after our date, but…"

"Sure."

"Now he seems convinced we're going to end up married for some absurd reason."

"Mm." He'd stopped paying attention. It was much less uncomfortable that way.

"…really quite persistent…"

He nodded absentmindedly as he watched Minerva on the other side of the room. She was looking particularly melancholy - upset, even - and he wondered if-

"Hang on," he said suddenly, "you went on a _date_ with him?"

Ilania shrugged. "What? It's not like he's not attractive. And he'd had a horrible breakup with some Muggle researcher named Brian, so I felt a bit sorry for him. But then all I heard the entire length of dinner was how awful Brian was."

"Brian?"

She folded her arms and gave him a judgmental glare. "Yes, Tom, men date men. It happens."

"I am aware of that, thank you." He just didn't care to think about it. Or anyone or anything else that Kettleburn might have had relations with.

"Anyway, I said we were better as friends and he _seemed_ fine with it. But now-"

"Have you considered talking to him?" Why was he still having this conversation?

"Yes, but I'm extremely busy and in no fit mental state to deal with… that. There's a lot going on right now, and I don't…" She looked at him suddenly - again, like she'd been handed a gift - and smiled. "Tom, you know Minerva?"

What a dumb question. "Yes, I am vaguely familiar with that person."

"Well, she's asked me to assist her with a sort of… project, but I really don't have the time."

"That's nice."

"No, listen. Can you help her instead? I would be eternally grateful."

He thought for a moment. He'd yet to find the impostor Dumbledore, and the real Dumbledore seemed to be missing as well, though no one seemed to notice or care. In the meantime, he had considered pursuing some sort of investigation into what had happened with Minerva the night he found her talking to herself (if he had interpreted what he had heard correctly, then she was a potential threat), but he wasn't sure of a way to go about it. Perhaps this was the answer.

He'd started out the school year with a reasonably short list of important, relevant goals. He wondered what ever happened to that.

"What is the project?"

Ilania's smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. "Just some research for a new topic in her curriculum. She's really passionate about it."

Transfiguration wasn't difficult. How burdensome could a small amount of research be? And if slow observation became tedious, all he had to do was get her alone and pull what he wanted out of her mind himself.

"Fine," he said.

"Really? You'll do it? Promise you won't back out of it."

"Alright."

"Excellent. I'll let her know."

Dippet arrived, finally, looking like he had just woken up. "Morning," he said. "Start of term notices. Please note that, in addition to students, teachers are also no longer allowed to approach the Forbidden Forest until we can negotiate a diplomatic agreement with the centaurs."

"It usually doesn't take this long for Dumbledore to shut the man horses up," said Grayson. "What's the delay?"

"No need to worry," interjected Kettleburn. "Bane and I have a wonderful rapport. I'll talk to him for us."

Dippet sighed, along with several others. "Right. I'm sure that will go well. Anyway, our temporary Potions Understudy will be absent for a month or so to do… well… What is she doing, Horace?"

Slughorn shrugged. "No idea. I stopped asking."

"Brilliant. Anyway-"

"Sir," Tom interrupted, "where is Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore?"

Dippet looked at him, then stared off to the side for a moment, as if he were deep in thought. Or deeply confused. It was… odd. "He had to go away," he said slowly, like he was trying to recall something from a long time ago. "For a while."

No one seemed particularly bothered by that. Why wasn't anyone bothered by that?

"Anyway," Dippet continued, all sense of confusion having disappeared, "that's all I've got. If there are any questions…"

Silence.

After a few minutes Ilania asked, "are we not going to talk about the forest? We should really talk about the forest."

More silence.

The amount of anxiety-inducing magical disasters they had experienced year after year had desensitized most of the staff, and a forest that should not have existed just was not worth getting upset over, apparently.

"It's really more of a grove than a forest, isn't it?" Tyre suggested.

Ilania rolled her eyes. "Does that really matter? We don't know where it came from and we still can't discern what properties it has. What if it spreads and-"

"I thought a grove was less than ten trees," Fogg cut in.

Tyre shrugged. "Did anyone count the trees?"

"I think there are more than ten," said Beery.

"I suppose 'forest' works, then," Tyre concluded.

Ilania sighed. "I hate you all."

"Right," said Dippet, "well, everyone have a wonderful term."

The room went quiet. Nobody moved. It was as if they were avoiding leaving because, once they walked out the door, they were going to have to start a new term, and no one wanted that. At all.

* * *

The Muggle Studies classroom was on the fifth floor. When the forest had shown up, Fogg was forced to relocate, and the place he chose to relocate to was the empty third-floor classroom right beside Tom's.

This would not have been a problem if it were _any other class_.

But Muggle Studies students spent a considerable amount of time playing records and riding bicycles and, for some ridiculous reason, running Hoovers over bits of carpet.

So for Tom, the first day of classes was filled with gruesome, detailed explanations of various elements of the Dark Arts interspersed with upbeat music, loud humming, and laughter.

Almost everyone was distracted.

"Dammit, Smith. Did I not tell you to practice with non-physical hexes only? Now Balsley is missing a leg."

"Sorry, sir, I didn't hear…"

"It will grow back, sir, won't it?" Balsley asked, standing up and balancing on his remaining leg.

"Eh- sure," said Tom. "Possibly. Smith, take him to the Hospital Wing. Good lord."

This term was off to a wonderful start.

After three more equally chaotic lessons, he had finally reached his limit. He walked over to the other classroom and opened the door without bothering to knock.

"Professor Fogg-"

He stopped when he realized what he was seeing.

The children were huddled around Fogg and a boy who appeared to have his hand stuck inside the bottom of a Hoover. They were trying desperately to remove it but did not seem to be getting anywhere.

"Ah, Professor," Fogg breathed, "I'll be with you in one… minute…" The amount of pulling he was doing on the child's arm looked painful.

Tom cast a spell that broke the device into pieces and the arm was free.

"So, you see," Fogg said to the rest of the class, "that is why the bottom _stays_ on the floor. Thank you, Professor." He nodded at Tom.

The children left and Fogg stared down at the sad remains of his Hoover. "That was my only one," he lamented.

"How unfortunate. Anyway, I really must insist that you control the noise that-"

"Oh, sorry about that. My old classroom had silencing charms around it. I forgot to put them up here."

Well, that was an unexpectedly easy conversation. "Brilliant," he said, and turned to leave.

"Before you go, is there any chance you can fix this wireless for me? I've been trying to remove the back, but-"

"Shouldn't _you_ know how to fix all of these… objects? How do they even work inside the castle, anyway?"

Fogg shrugged. "Simple field neutralization charms. And I've never been very adept at the mechanical side of things. But ask me about the history of anything here, and I can tell you."

"How pertinent." He examined the back of the wireless and removed the screws. The panel popped off effortlessly and he handed it to Fogg. He had all the wires reattached before he realized what the hell he was doing and backed away from the thing.

"Do not ask me to do this again," he said quietly.

"But you fixed it! I don't even know how to-"

"Do not ask me to do this again," he repeated, the threat in his voice unmistakable.

Fogg recoiled slightly. "Alright…" he said quietly, looking concerned.

Tom made to leave but turned around just as he reached the door. "Why do you even bother with these things?" he demanded. "Are there not more important topics to discuss? Like how dangerous and destructive Muggles can be? Or how their primitive politics affect us? You know, things that students might actually need to be aware of?"

Fogg made a "tch" sound. "I know what you're getting at. And I find it hard to believe that _you_ would subscribe to Muggle-hating pureblood ideology when you are clearly Muggle-born."

He had to stop and review the words in his head before he fully comprehended them and the man's audacity to say them.

"You do not know anything about me," he spat, a familiar sense of rage and disgust taking him over. "Why would you assume-"

"Because you knew what a wireless was without me having to tell you, and you can fix them better than my father, who used to sell the things."

It was like being slapped in the face. "I am _not_ Muggle-born," he stated, his voice growing louder.

"'Muggle-born' doesn't just refer to blood. It's to do with the environment in which you are raised, too. Even purebloods, if ever born and raised in a Muggle environment, would have the same knowledge as Muggle-borns."

Fogg was unexpectedly clever. Even so, he was completely wrong and had no idea what he was talking about. And furthermore…

The next Monday, Fogg reported to his classroom on the second floor which, as far as he remembered, was the only classroom he'd had so far this term.

* * *

All he had wanted to do was find the Room of Requirement.

Despite being busy with classes, he was determined to accomplish at least some of the goals he'd had at the beginning of the year. And now, unlike the last several months, he felt an odd sense of urgency about it.

One of those goals had been to find the Room of Requirement. The magically augmented space would serve as an incredibly useful asset, should he manage to locate it. So, he set out to do so late one Tuesday evening, after the castle was asleep.

He was certain the room had appeared on the sixth floor, and when he located the familiar spot, he paced back and forth, willing the door to show itself.

And it did. An arched doorway appeared, smaller than he remembered, with a heavy wooden door set inside it. On the knob was hung a small sign that said "occupied."

That was new.

He opened the door anyway. Should have known better.

Inside was a small, dark closet. Two older Ravenclaw students were only partially dressed and quite far along on their hormone-addled adventure.

"S- sorry, sir," the girl said, scrambling to stand while the boy looked for his shirt.

"Yeah, sorry, Professor. We were just-"

"I don't need to know what you were 'just' doing. Enjoy your detentions."

"But- but sir," the girl stuttered.

He went to shut the door but stopped himself. He was curious about something. "Hang on," he said. "I don't want to give you detention."

"Really?" The boy looked relieved, almost hopeful.

"Yes. Instead, I'm taking a hundred points from Ravenclaw."

And, sure enough, this prospect seemed to horrify them far more than detention. How about that.

"Sir," said the girl, "we'll take the detentions. Please, can we just take the detentions?"

The boy tried to reason with him. "Come on, Professor." He smiled. "You were young once too, weren't you?"

Tom slammed the door shut and locked it. He walked away to the sound of them banging on it from the inside. Suddenly, he remembered: seventh floor. The Room of Requirement was on the _seventh_ floor.

He wondered what the highest acceptable number of lost points was for shagging in a magical closet. He probably could have gone higher.

* * *

He arrived at Minerva's office that Friday night, after she had sent him a cryptic note via owl that simply said:

_My office. 8. Come alone.  
-MM_

It had the ominous vagueness of a Killbliviator message.

"Ilania says you offered to take her place in our little project," she stated the second he closed the door.

"I did."

"Brilliant." She pulled a stack of books out of seemingly nowhere and dropped them on the desk between them. The book on top had two very naked people on the cover and the title read: _Reproductive Health Education: A Guide for Teachers_.

Well, that was not transfiguration.

"What is this?"

She sat down and sighed. "I recently found out that one of the seventh years is pregnant."

"And that is relevant to us how?"

She glared at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"But I really don't see-"

"I'm-going-to-pretend-you-didn't-say-that," she repeated through gritted teeth. "Anyway, this is the third time in two years, and it has become clear that we need to do something about it."

"Do what?"

She ignored him. "Now, strictly speaking, what we're doing isn't exactly, well, _legal_. But I have it all worked out."

"Have all _what_ worked out?" Where the hell was this going?

"And actually, I'm glad you're here because I really needed a _male_ teacher to cover the other side."

"Other side?"

He looked at the pile of books in front of him, then glanced at Minerva, then looked at the books again.

"No."

"Tom-"

"Absolutely not."

"Look, I don't like it either, but it has to be done."

"Why? What business is it of ours whether students are... liaising?"

Minerva sighed. "Because school is about more than just classes. Students need help with all sorts of things. Would you not have benefited from sex education when you were a student?"

He did not know how to answer that. "I don't think- doesn't really- hardly relevant-"

"Oh boy," she muttered, shaking her head. "I can tell _you_ won't be the one leading the discussions."

"Brilliant. Let me know when it's over."

He got up to leave but she raised her wand and the door sealed itself. "We shall suffer together," she commanded.

"Minerva, I will curse my way out of this room if I have to," he said, a bit more forcefully than he had intended.

"You promised," she sighed with an expertly executed look of disappointment.

He _had_ promised. Like an utterly foolish and naïve idiot, he had promised. But there were favors and then there were _favors_.

The situation needed to be rectified, desperately. They were already alone, but he couldn't… possibly… It would be incredibly risky to...

The Curse was cast before he even realized what he was doing. She stood there, completely still, eyes unfocused, her mind waiting for him to tell it what to do.

"Shit."

It was a bit like one of those moments when you accidentally stun a Ministry employee and shove her into a closet for safe keeping, as people often did. Only this time, there was no closet, and Minerva wasn't going to be disappearing back to London after the fact, never to be seen again. He would have to deal with the aftermath of whatever he did next, so he proceeded with extreme caution.

More or less.

Legilimency was a delicate, finicky process. It had its requirements, and it had its limits. There was a reason why so few wizards were able to master it properly.

Despite what Muggles and most ignorant wizards assumed, the mind did not lay all its contents out flat for easy reading. True, a brief and superficial glimpse into a victim's current stream of consciousness was possible, if one knew how to do it. But regardless, the mind was a dense, complex network of ideas, impulses, memories, desires, and many other things that worked in concert with one another to create a functioning human psyche. This made interpreting it immensely difficult.

The key was knowing how to allow the various parts to guide you through the network. A desire might lead to an idea, which in turn could lead to a memory. You simply needed a starting point.

That was where the Imperius Curse came in.

"Minerva," he said gently, "tell me who you were talking to in the staff room a few weeks ago, in the middle of the night."

He did not expect a direct answer. The Imperius Curse was not Veritaserum. If she was afraid, or if something was subconsciously keeping her from answering, she would not answer. But she might, instead, give a hint.

"I can't," she mumbled, struggling to get words out. "She'll... she'll make me..."

So it was fear, then. Fear, a woman that sounded like her, and all the odd, nonsensical things he'd heard during that conversation. There was plenty to use.

Carefully, and with expert precision, he prodded the depths of her strangely well-organized psyche. It did not take long to find the fear. Now he just needed to figure out where it came from. He had not performed Legilimency this complex in a long time, and it was nice to be reminded of how effortlessly he was able to-

"Why are you on the floor?"

He was lying on his back and Minerva was standing over him, looking somewhat concerned.

"I don't- what?"

He had no idea what had happened. One moment he was seeing an image of a face, and the next, he was hit with a stabbing pain and everything went black.

"Should I get Madam Sable?" she asked.

Well, this was moderately embarrassing. "No. I'm fine." He stood up quickly and immediately regretted it. The pain in his head was still there.

"Don't think you can get out of this by having a psychotic episode, Tom."

Like Dumbledore, there was something very wrong with Minerva. Had he not been in immense pain, he would have attempted the search again immediately. But he could barely focus. And repeated invasion carried the risk of permanent damage. But mostly, he could barely focus.

The long game, then.

It was fine. He could handle it. All he had to do was teach children about sex.

How difficult could that be?

Yes, this was a reasonable strategy.

It wasn't like he sought petty symbolic revenge on a colleague's subconscious for embarrassing him and was willing to endure the painful prospect of sex education in order to get it, or anything. He was above such childish retaliation. He needed _information_ , and this was currently the best way to go about getting it.

More or less.

* * *

He could not think of a worse way to end his night.

So the universe came up with one for him.

On his way to the stairs he passed the blocked-off entrance to the mystery forest, which was emitting an unusually sensual series of low moans. He was relatively certain forests did not... do that. Though he wouldn't have put it past this one.

It did not take him long to find them.

"Why is it," he asked the familiar Slytherin and Hufflepuff Slug Club members, whose names he should probably have learned by now, "that when some terrifying and possibly dangerous new object shows up, the first thing students think to do is find a way to fornicate in it? Or on it? Or with it?"

"Sorry, sir," one of them mumbled as they attempted to clothe themselves.

"I would say, for this, a month of det- No. Two hundred points will be taken from each of your Houses."

"Points, sir?"

"YES, POINTS!" he shouted. "I take away points now. Leave, and do not annoy me again."

As they ran off, he realized that it was possible the student body _did_ need something to curb their rampant hormone-fueled idiocy.

And _he_ was going to have to figure out what that something was and teach it to them.

He felt nauseous.

No, he could do it. He was more than capable.

 _It will be fine_ , he reminded himself for the second time in ten minutes. _Perfectly fine_.


	14. Sex Education Part 2: Education

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thanks again to AFamiliarWitch for tolerating me long enough to brilliantly beta this chapter!

It was not fine.

At all.

In fact, it was nightmarish in the same way Beery's dancing was nightmarish, only he didn't have to attempt to design a secret, illegal curriculum for Beery's dancing.

"The official stance of the Ministry," Minerva had told him during their second covert meeting, which was not covert at all because they were sitting in the middle of the library, "is the same as it's been for about six hundred years."

"Right."

"Absolutely no sex education of any kind is allowed at Hogwarts."

"Right."

"Though, the policy has improved slightly. We can now say the word 'sex' without suffering a terrible tongue-removing curse."

"How progressive."

"Now, I have most of the planning taken care of, but I require assistance with the research and, of course, execution."

"You do realize that this is probably something we should be obtaining parental permission for, right?"

She sighed. "Yes. But parents are even more difficult to deal with than the Ministry and the Governors put together. It's just easier this way."

"And how exactly are we supposed to stealthily teach a banned topic to half the student population over the course of a few weeks with no one noticing?"

She glared at him.

"Right," he muttered. "You have it taken care of."

He thought research would be an acceptable task. He'd always taken an objective, academic view of these sorts of things, and he assumed that such an approach would be exactly what was required.

But of course, as with almost everything else in this job, he'd made the wrong assumptions.

Minerva had handed him a list of topics and a stack of books with the most awkward titles ever devised and insisted that he report back to her with his findings. It took him a full three days before he managed to summon enough patience and self-control to open that first text ( _Your Body is Magic!_ ), which he immediately closed and set on fire.

"Reproductive health" was far more convoluted than he had previously assumed, and the books were entirely too detailed for his liking. And _everything_ had a fucking diagram.

There was no reason anyone other than a healer would ever need to know the different… parts of things. That knowledge certainly wasn't required to _use_ them. Encouraging the prevention of disease and pregnancy made sense. But why could the information not have been laid out in a pamphlet or something? Why did it have to be taught?

Minerva was not happy when he approached her with this logic.

"They're going to have questions," she explained impatiently. "And if we can provide answers, then it is our obligation to do so."

"Is it, though?"

They were in her office again, and he had given her what little research he'd managed to get through, which seemed to placate her for the time being.

"It is," she said.

He stared at her.

"We are teachers," she continued, "and our responsibility does not end in the classroom."

"Sure." He stared at her some more.

He was not listening at all. Instead, he was trying to figure out a way to make subtle eye contact so that he could continue his investigation into her unnaturally strong mind wall (if he could just manage to get some answers, he could disappear forever and never touch another revolting reproductive education book). But she was not making it easy.

Most of the time he did not need eye contact to perform Legilimency. But for what he was trying to do here, it was almost a necessity.

"I thought you understood the importance of this," she lectured, standing up and adding notes to her office wall, which was covered with plans and ideas and reminded him slightly of what the inside of a crazed stalker's house probably looked like. "Now, all you have to do in the sessions is go through the folder. It starts with reproductive health, so make sure to go over the diagrams."

"Right." He was not going to do that.

She sat back down at her desk. "I'll incorporate your notes, but we'll need a bit more on contraception."

He stared at her in response.

"And we can start next week. I've got all the sessions lined up."

More staring.

"So, starting on Tuesday, you will report to the eighth floor at six o'clock."

He could see images now, and ideas. He only needed to focus on one…

"The first sessions will be fifth years, which won't be easy… but…"

There was the fear again. If he could just follow it to something useful...

"Tom…"

There was a face, maybe, and an object? He couldn't quite tell-

"TOM!"

"What?"

"Why the bloody hell are you staring at me like that? Are you having another episode?"

"No," he sighed. "I do not have episodes."

"It's alright, you know… If you do," she said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. "You should see Madam Sable. She can do a psychological assessment-"

"I do not need a psychological assessment."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. Honestly, we all have moments-"

"Please stop talking."

Well, this was a failure. He should have stunned her first.

* * *

The plan was to have a series of evening sessions with small groups - fifteen or twenty at a time - to avoid attracting attention. Minerva insisted she had a strategy for getting the students to the right place at the right time, though she never bothered to tell him what that strategy was.

He didn't really care, either. He would show up, he would be on time. But he was not going to teach a bloody thing if he could help it. All he had to do was keep up this charade long enough to get her alone one more time – he was determined, now.

Of course, he could have just broken into her quarters at night, or cornered her in her office during her morning break, or even sent a subtle Imperius Curse at her during dinner, and had her follow him to somewhere private.

But those options carried considerable risks. And anyway, he wasn't a pervert. And if he was once again attacked by whatever it was that was protecting her memories, there was a chance he would end up unconscious and lying on the floor. He did not want to be discovered passed out next to a woman inside her flat after breaking into it.

The fifth-year boys took their seats and stared at him in silent confusion. He addressed them as he normally would have done – like it was just another lecture.

"The purpose of this session is to discuss topics related to reproductive health."

"What is that?" one of the boys asked, looking clueless.

"He's talking about sex, you arse," said another boy.

There was a mixture of stifled laughter and shouts of "what?" and "really?"

"Yes," said Tom, "…that. _However_ , I do not have - nor will I ever have - any desire at all to talk about anything related to reproductive health. So, we are going to sit in silence for an hour and no one will say a single word and we will all leave here happy."

"But sir -"

"No."

"But-"

"No. Do not speak."

He passed out the folders that Minerva had made. "These folders contain information. Do not ask me questions about anything in them."

They were quiet for a while. Some of the boys seemed perfectly content to fall asleep or stare at the wall. But others did not. And quite a few were perusing the contents of their folders with interest, which annoyed him considerably, because he knew they were going to try to ask him questions about it. That was what students _did_.

After several minutes they started whispering.

Then one boy said, "Professor, can I ask a question?"

"No."

But in a bold and foolish move, the boy ignored him. "Sir, shouldn't you be _teaching_ us about this stuff?"

"Probably."

"But why don't you want to teach us?"

"Why are you still talking?"

Unbelievably, the idiot kept going. "Sir, why don't you like talking about sex-"

He removed the boy's mouth. "Anyone else?"

Quite a few hands went into the air, and before he had decided whether or not it was worth the effort to remove all of their mouths, they started talking.

"It says in here that potions don't work all the time, but what if you pay for the really good ones?"

"Nah, condoms work best."

"How would you know? You've never even talked to a girl, Smith."

"Shut your mouth."

"Can you get diseases from touching? Or do you have to actually do it?"

"Don't be thick. It has to go in."

"No, it only has to be close."

"What the hell are you on about?"

Tom sat back in his chair and sighed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe if they kept going like this they could entertain themselves for the rest of the session and he wouldn't have to say a word.

"It's safer to just do it yourself."

"You're just saying that because you know you'll never get a girl, Moran."

"I bet Moran does it himself all the time."

"But, like, how do you actually, like, _do_ it?"

"Oooh! Singleton's a virgin!"

"Shut up. So are you, Fawley."

"Liar! I've had loads-"

"Bollocks."

He was managing to tune them out, somehow, likely in the same way he'd managed to tune out his classmates when ninety percent of their conversations had centered around sex. What a miserable time that had been. No one would do anything he told them to do because they were all distracted, so he ended up doing everything by himself. Which was fine, really, because they were all incompetent, anyway.

Though, perhaps if he had paid a bit more attention to what was going on around him, he would have been somewhat more prepared for this job, which he did not-

"Sir?"

"What?"

They were all staring at him.

"I asked what kind of protection works best."

"Whatever it says in the folder."

"But, you know, like… What's your opinion? From experience."

Tom blinked stupidly at him.

After several awkward seconds of silence, the boy continued. "You- you know what I mean, right sir?"

They all turned to look at him with burning curiosity.

" _Do_ you?" asked another boy.

"That- that is hardly relevant to-"

Yes, it was. It was directly relevant.

It was like a trap from which there was no escape that did not involve cursing or killing children. Or erasing all their memories and hoping for the best.

Or… talking about himself.

There had to be a way to flee. Maybe he could murder them all and disappear to somewhere nice. Portugal, perhaps. He'd always liked the idea of Portugal.

When he failed to give an answer, they started whispering.

"Sir," one of them said, "you do _have_ experience, don't you?"

He sighed. "Does it matter?"

"Does that mean no?"

"No, it means it doesn't matter."

"So yes, then?"

"Please stop talking."

"But if you don't have any experience, how are you supposed to teach-"

"I did not say I don't-" He took a deep, calming breath. "You know, there are so many, _many_ more important things in this world to concern yourself with than sex."

They looked bewildered.

Of course they did. He was foolish and naïve to think that there was anything else in the world teenage boys cared about more than sex. Well, normal ones, anyway.

He sighed again before stunning them all. They did not need to remember this.

* * *

"How did it go?" Minerva asked as the boys left the room.

"It was fine."

"Did they ask questions?"

"Yes." Technically not a lie.

"Did you answer them?"

"Yes." Also technically not a lie.

She studied him carefully, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Brilliant, I'll just go ask a few of the boys if they felt they'd learned something-"

"Or, you could _not_ do that."

"Bloody hell, Tom. Did you teach them _anything_?"

"I am offended by that accusation."

She glared at him. "The next session is tomorrow. Sixth years. Do not be late and do not _muck it up_."

It was apparent that he would need to approach future sessions differently. So, he decided to spend the time going through the contents of those abhorrent folders. He would simply read through each page and not give them a chance to ask questions and then it would be over.

That did not work either.

The next day, as the students took their seats, he sat behind the desk at the front, wishing desperately that the hallucination theory Impostor Dumbledore had offered was true and that he would suddenly wake up anywhere but in this room. When several minutes went by and the nightmare had not ended, he realized that at some point he was going to have to say words.

He handed out the folders. Then he opened one himself. The first page appeared to be an introduction and a simple list of facts. Easy enough.

"This session," he told them, "is to discuss issues related to reproductive health."

Scattered snickering and whispering.

"Please reference the folder provided."

Once they all appeared to be paying attention, he started on the first page.

"'Today,'" he read, "'you will be learning about the important changes your body is going through-'" he sighed, "'-and how you can stay safe, should you choose to engage… in… sexual activity.'"

More snickering.

"'It is important to understand,'" he continued, "'that as you get older, you may have urges'- good lord."

He skipped a few lines.

"'It is completely normal to experience nocturnal emi-' Jesus Christ."

This was a nightmare. Why did he think this would be better? He tried the last few lines.

"'You may find that your pe-'"

He threw the sheet of paper onto the floor. "Let's move on to the next page, shall we?"

The next page was a large and very detailed diagram of the male reproductive system.

He slammed the folder down onto the desk in front of him and sighed. "Look, don't be idiots. Don't shag anything that moves just because you want to. If you are insistent upon shagging anything that moves, use protection. End of lesson."

He looked at the clock on the wall.

Seven minutes. He'd managed to get through seven minutes.

The boys were staring at him in confusion, much like the fifth years had. "Sir," one of them asked, "are you alright?"

There was a reason he was here, at Hogwarts. There was a reason, he just couldn't remember it at the moment. Some grand strategy that he had been completely certain would work. And a logical explanation for why the Greatest Dark Wizard of All Time was currently sitting in a classroom with teenagers and talking about sex organs while praying for the sweet release of death.

"Let's just keep going through the folder," he muttered, resigned to his fate.

After two revolting diagrams and sixteen pages of torture – during which he managed to say the word "penis" more times in forty-five minutes than he had in his entire life – it was over.

His relief lasted about three seconds before he remembered that there were eight more sessions to lead after this one.

Maybe if he just killed Minerva, he wouldn't have to worry about whether or not she was a threat, and he would never have to do this again. Yes, that seemed logical. Desirable, even, after the hell she had just put him through.

* * *

After the not-so-surprising revelation that teaching was trapping him in a torturous hell from which there was no escape – a revelation he realized he'd had several times before and had done nothing about – he decided to go ahead and steal the Sword of Gryffindor.

He had traced the Sword's whereabouts through the centuries and somehow, unbelievably, it had ended up back in the castle sometime within the last decade. It was the first decent thing that had happened since he'd started this job.

And now, after his holiday visit to Dippet's office, he knew exactly where it was and how to get it.

He'd left the office in a hurry the last time, after Phineas's revelation that there were two Dumbledores roaming around, but he was not too terribly concerned that anyone would touch the Sword in the meantime.

The office was empty, as Dippet was fast asleep in the library. He opened the door and immediately saw the Sword on the other side of the room, still sitting in its flimsy glass case, the light from the flames in the fireplace glinting off its blade in a welcoming sort of way.

"You're back!" said Phineas from his portrait above the door.

"Do not talk to me," he commanded as he walked across the room and approached the glass with his wand raised.

It didn't take much.

The glass exploded and the Sword fell with a clang onto the hard stone floor of the office.

"Well, that was somewhat underwhelming," Phineas muttered, watching Tom pick up the Sword and examine it.

It had a warmth to it, and the almost imperceptible vibration that often came with ancient magical relics whose powers had, for lack of a better phrase, fermented with age. It was not sentient like the Sorting Hat, however. This he could determine immediately. Manipulating it would not be difficult.

It was the first time he had actually managed to obtain something that had belonged to any of the Founders, and this moment, he realized, was a moment of triumph. There had been nothing in this world – no other relics, no objects of power, nothing – that was prestigious and meaningful enough to house a part of himself. Only these-

"I think he's in love!" Phineas exclaimed to no one in particular.

Tom snapped out of his reverie and shot the portrait a nasty look. "I am not above burning a hole in your face, old man," he said.

"Forgive me," Phineas drawled in false politeness, "I was merely commenting on the passion and reverence with which you behold this most sacred object. It must hold great significance for you, because you looked like you were about to snog it."

"STOP TALKING!" Tom yelled, gripping the Sword by the hilt and making for the door. "And if you tell anyone about this-"

"Yes, yes. Fire, destruction, poorly planned portrait homicide, et cetera. I have no interest in alerting anyone to your astonishingly unskilled thievery. I want to see where this goes."

Tom glanced around the room at the other portraits, who were watching him carefully and nodding their agreement.

"They won't say anything either," Phineas assured him. "Being a painting is bloody _boring_. We like to see action once in a while. Now, why don't you go and do unspeakable things with that Sword and report the thrilling tale back to us, yes?"

Tom left without another word.

"I hope you two are happy together!" Phineas called after him.

* * *

They were alone.

Finally, after nearly a week of torture, Tom found himself alone in a room with Minerva.

"I don't know why they would suggest such a thing," he said.

"Did you say it or not?" she demanded.

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"No. I did not tell the students that I had put a curse on the entire castle that would make their genitalia fall off if they attempted to have sex inside it."

He did.

"Did you at least get the whole way through the folder this time?"

"Yes. I successfully reviewed the contents of the entire folder."

He didn't.

Surprisingly, instead of berating him, she gave an exasperated sigh. "To be honest, I'm not having much luck either. Most of the girls will not listen to a thing I say until I tell them who it is that's pregnant, which, of course, I will not do. And when I do actually manage to start some sort of lecture, it is constantly interrupted by obnoxious giggling."

She stared at the obsessive notes covering her office wall for a few seconds, and Tom took the chance to shut and lock the door with his wand.

"Fine," she said after a while. "We'll get them all together then, in a single session, and make sure that they are at least taught the proper methods of contraception."

"We?"

"Yes."

It was quite possible that this meant no more horrendous sessions. Also, if it was both of them, she could do all the talking. And he knew she would, too, if she was worried enough that he would cock it up. "Sounds wonderful," he said.

The moment she sat down at her desk, he cast the Imperius Curse once again and the annoyance and frustration in her face disappeared.

He had, over the course of the week, decided against his original plan of killing her, either because he was right in thinking that it would be far too much effort to hide the murder of a coworker he'd been seen associating with, or he was getting lazy.

He had more information now than he did last time – a face, and the distorted image of what looked like a round object. So, instead of following the deep and all-consuming fear she had in connection to whatever was going on, he went in a different direction.

He started by focusing on her desire to hide the problem, to ensure that she maintained a professional demeanor even as she suffered some sort of grave inner turmoil. It proved to be just as useful a guide as the fear. And the idea of hiding led him directly to the exact thing he was searching for.

The image depicted a box - an ornate, gilded container encrusted with what looked like rubies. It was about the size of an apple and octagonal in shape. But it wasn't the box itself that she feared. He tried to push her mind to open it, to contemplate what was inside, but as he did so, that sharp, stabbing pain began to return to his head, as if it were a warning to stay away.

Then, like something out of a nightmare, Minerva's face appeared inside her own head, distorted and scarred and furious.

And then everything went black.

"I really think you ought to see the nurse," she said, standing over him again and looking more annoyed than concerned. "This is getting ridiculous."

* * *

The eighth-floor all-purpose classroom had been reconfigured to resemble an auditorium and, somehow, Minerva had managed to successfully summon all of the fifth, sixth, and seventh years there at eight o'clock at night on a Friday. It was risky, but she did not seem to care anymore.

She never told Tom exactly what they would be doing, but it didn't matter, as long as she did all the talking. She could go over every disgusting diagram in existence for all he cared, as long as he didn't have to say a word. He was more or less keeping up appearances at that point, placating her until he could locate the object she kept hidden away.

Once the students were seated and had quieted down, she began the lesson. "Tonight, we will be going over various forms of contraception and their effectiveness in preventing pregnancy and disease. I'll review the basics first, then Professor Riddle and I will demonstrate-"

"What?" Tom said before he could stop himself.

She ignored his outburst. "-demonstrate the proper application of certain methods. Now, contrary to popular belief, potions are _not_ the most effective method of contraception. They are, at best, only somewhat reliable. And do not forget that everyone reacts to medicinal potions differently.

"Condoms are not necessarily the most reliable method either, but they are much more consistent in effectiveness than potions and far more readily available. Or, at least, they will be once I convince Madam Sable to stop yelling the word 'abstinence' at me every time I bring up the subject.

"Anyway, as I'm sure the boys have learned, every penis is different, and the correct use of condoms…"

Tom slid further down into his seat, hoping he would simply melt into it at some point. He did not think this would be a problem. He could sit in a classroom with children and talk through this rubbish - that was fine (after a few false starts). But when _Minerva_ did it, right in front of him, with no shame, it was much less tolerable for some reason.

She droned on for a while and he wondered why this whole project was so important to her. It wasn't like the students were going to listen or take advice or do what they were told. That was asking quite a lot. But she was, nevertheless, determined.

"…to demonstrate. Professor Riddle, would you kindly assist me?"

"No."

She tried to make the threatening glare she was sending him subtle, so that the students couldn't see it. He got up reluctantly and joined her at the table.

There was a banana on it.

"STOP!" someone yelled.

The door burst open and three men in long, regal-looking robes stormed their way toward the front of the room.

"Fucking hell," Minerva muttered.

The rotund man in front looked furious, his face painfully red. "Stop this immediately," he commanded. "We forbid you to carry on this scandalous, unapproved curriculum."

She sighed. "Of course you do."

"OUT!" the man told the children, who did not move, and instead looked at Minerva for guidance.

"Go," she told them. "We will continue this later."

"You most certainly will not," the man growled as the students filed out of the room looking confused.

"Governor Macmillan," Minerva said in mock politeness, "do please try to remain calm. I don't need you having a heart attack while berating me. That would be highly inconvenient."

He ignored her and instead looked at Tom. "So, you're the new one, eh? Dippet must be going blind. You're barely out of school."

"Nice to meet you as well," said Tom.

"And you, Miss McGonagall-"

" _Professor_ McGonagall, thank you very much. I do not spend every waking moment of my life teaching children inside this infernal castle with you breathing down my neck constantly as a hobby, Governor."

"Did we not tell you last year that continued delinquency would result in disciplinary action?"

"How did you even find out-"

"We have our methods, _Miss_ McGonagall," one of the other Governors told her.

She stared at them and, slowly, the confusion in her face morphed into unmistakable rage. "A trace," she said quietly. "You put a trace on me." Her hands balled into fists.

"We did," Macmillan admitted. "After your last attempt to indoctrinate children with your immoral, liberal ideals-"

"A trace," Minerva repeated, and Tom could sense that she was very quickly losing her self-control.

"We'd hoped you would have learned your lesson, but clearly you did not. All we had to do was wait until there was enough evidence to incriminate-"

There was a sudden, bright flash of light and all three of the Governors fell to the floor.

"Oh no," Minerva breathed, her wand still pointed at the space where the Governors had been standing.

Tom wasn't sure what to say, exactly. Eventually he landed on "well done."

She looked fearful now. "'Well done?' I think I just destroyed my career!"

"Not necessarily."

"What I did was horribly out of line."

"Can't we just-"

"We cannot keep abusing and then Obliviating authority figures when they annoy us, Tom."

"Well, forgive me. That small detail must have been included in the orientation I never received."

* * *

He'd had it in his possession for a week. One week.

And despite having been extremely careful, scouting the best possible alternative location ahead of time, and waiting until three in the morning to do anything, he'd been caught.

There was nothing he could do. He was quite literally standing on the marble steps in front of the Great Hall, holding the Sword of Gryffindor and staring blankly up at Dumbledore like an idiot.

But which Dumbledore?

The man pointed at the Sword. "What are you doing with that, if I may ask?"

"I found it, sir. I believe a student may have stolen it out of the Headmaster's office and I was returning it."

Dumbledore observed him carefully for what felt like ages, until he finally said, "is there something you wish to tell me, Tom?"

"No, sir."

"Brilliant, because I don't care."

He walked away.

Impostor Dumbledore, then. "Wait!" Tom called before he had a chance to disappear again.

The man stopped and looked at him with that same odd, benign smile. "Yes?"

He pointed his wand in the impostor's face. He would not take any chances this time. "Who are you? And what have you done with the real Dumbledore?"

The man did not appear at all intimidated by the threat. "I _am_ Dumbledore. Though I prefer 'Albus' and, occasionally, 'Brian.' You know, this you is a lot less interesting, I have to say."

"This me?"

"Less intelligent, too. Honestly, it wasn't like I was particularly careful about hiding myself."

"What?"

"'What' indeed."

"Enough nonsense. Answer my questions or I will-"

"You will what?"

There was a strange, unfamiliar tone to his voice, as if he knew _exactly_ what Tom was capable of and was not even remotely intimidated by him. It was so very different from the real Dumbledore that it made Tom extremely uncomfortable. Despite this, he kept his wand steady and his face blank.

Dumbledore looked at him for a moment. "Ah, _now_ I see why you are still alive," he said casually. "Interesting. She will not like this at all."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

In a single, swift movement, the impostor yanked the Sword out of Tom's hand like a child stealing a toy, and with a sudden, loud popping noise, he was gone.

Disapparated.

From within Hogwarts.

With the Sword of Gryffindor.


	15. Silvanus Kettleburn Kills the Centaurs

Tom woke up the next morning with leaves in his face.

After spending most of the night searching for the impostor, raging over the loss of the Sword, and vowing lethal revenge, he had finally passed out just before sunrise. It was only a few hours later that his flat's new ecosystem woke him with the earthy smell of moss and bark.

The entirety of his ceiling was covered in thick, bluish-gray roots that were growing out of a hole in the corner and stretching into the room like snakes. They extended down the walls, across the floor, and right up to his bed, and they carried with them that strange, unfamiliar magical fog that permeated the Mystery Forest.

He knew the castle was dangerous, but now it seemed as if it were intent on murdering him.

"So, there's a forest in my bedroom, now," he said casually at breakfast, hoping either Tyre or Ilania would know what to do.

Tyre looked intrigued. "Is there really? Mystery Forest must be spreading."

"Oh, are we calling it 'Mystery Forest,' now?" Ilania spat with bitter sarcasm. "If you remember, Cillian, I warned you there was a possibility the thing would spread. But no one listens to me in this castle full of useless men."

Tyre blinked at her a few times. Then he turned to Tom. "Was it still growing when you left?"

"No, it wasn't moving at all. But it must have only taken it a few hours to spread, because it certainly wasn't there last night."

"Hm."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance?" came a booming voice from further down the table.

Kettleburn stood up and walked over to them and neither Ilania nor Tyre looked happy about it.

"I've had to fend off quite an array of flora on my expeditions into the wild. All it takes is a decent severing spell and, sometimes, an exceptionally sharp knife."

"You can't cut it away, Silvanus," Ilania explained impatiently. "The Forest is magical and its properties are unknown. All we can do is try to stop it spreading."

"Oh, I'm sure we can figure something out! I'll take a look as soon as I smooth things over with the centaurs."

"Still upset about that explosion, eh?" Tyre asked him.

Kettleburn's smile faltered a bit. "Er- no, we've worked that out. I just have to fix one other… small issue."

"What small issue?" Ilania demanded.

"It's nothing, really… A slight cultural misunderstanding. Anyway, best be off."

He sauntered away and Ilania made a growling noise. "You know," she said to Tom, "I wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally killed them all while trying to 'smooth things over.' 'Things' have a tendency to blow up in his face."

"I see."

"But that's alright, because he always finds a way out of it and comes off looking like a hero."

"Aye, and writes a book about it," Tyre added.

Ilania groaned. "That's the _last_ thing we need: for him to write another bloody book. What would this one be called? _Silvanus Kettleburn Kills the Centaurs and Somehow Everything Works Out Perfectly_?"

"What was his last book called?"

" _Ten Safe Ways to Observe Dragon Mating Habits (and Ten Fun Ones)_."

* * *

The next day, Silvanus Kettleburn killed the centaurs.

It had happened in the morning. He'd been teaching a class out on the grounds, where he had set up a makeshift paddock for, of all things, a dragon.

It was a small, black thing, relatively unintimidating as far as dragons went. Kettleburn knew full well that he was not allowed to have one on the premises, but with Dumbledore missing and Dippet being less observant than a corpse, he did it anyway.

Apparently, dragon fire was quite uncontrollable, and by the time Kettleburn had remembered that little fact, the beast had set the entire paddock ablaze, along with the lawn and a considerable amount of trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Tom had been in the staff room at the time, making small adjustments to the study hall schedule to incorporate Cornelia's imminent return, when Ilania came in and yelled that there was an emergency out on the grounds.

They arrived to the sight of massive flames engulfing the paddock and the dragon rolling around happily in the grass nearby as Kettleburn tried in vain to rein it in. The children were evacuated as the staff made a desperate attempt to extinguish the expanding bonfire.

And it would have been fine if Kettleburn hadn't then tried to use a spell to entangle the dragon in ropes, making it horribly angry and causing it to fly off into the Forest, setting fire to every tree in sight as it went.

There was no stopping it at that point. All they could do was watch as flames and smoke filled the horizon.

Kettleburn had responded with a quiet "oh, no" before bounding into the Forest like an idiot.

"What did I tell you?" Ilania said as they attempted to save the trees closest to the grounds. "Blew up in his face."

"Literally," said Tom.

Kettleburn returned almost an hour later, showing up in the staff room where the other teachers had congregated, sporting deep cuts and burns and looking more upset than Tom had ever seen him.

"Well," he said quietly, a hint of misery in his voice, "we won't have to worry about diplomatic relations with the centaurs anymore."

Dippet frowned. "Why not?"

Ilania gave Tom a knowing look from across the room.

"Eh… Because the three that are left probably won't feel up for civilized discussion any time soon."

"Bloody hell, Silvanus!" Beery exclaimed.

He shrugged. "They're a hardy lot! They'll repopulate in no time."

Ilania looked like she wanted to slap him. "You just eradicated an entire population! And how are they supposed to repopulate with only three males?"

Kettleburn did not bother to answer.

Dippet sighed. "You've been back for one month, Silvanus. _One month_."

* * *

It would have been nice if all Tom had to focus on was teaching, and not also trying to find evil versions of coworkers, or retrieving priceless artefacts he'd stupidly lost, or worrying about whether the roots that had taken up residence in his flat were going to kill him in his sleep.

Or figuring out whatever the hell was going on with Minerva.

He did not need anything else occupying his time.

So, had the person screaming his name down the corridor been anyone but Dee Carson, he'd have kept walking.

"RIDDLE!"

"What?"

"Get in here and give us a hand." She was holding the door to the Great Hall open and waving for him to come in.

"I actually have quite a lot of things-"

"This won't take long."

Dee was an intimidating person, even to someone who could easily kill her. She had a loud, commanding personality that sort of forced you to pay attention lest you ended up with a black eye and a moderate sense of physical inadequacy.

He walked into the Great Hall to find it somewhat changed. The tables were moved to the back of the room, and three small chairs stood near the front, where the teachers' table had disappeared altogether, leaving a bare, raised platform.

Several students stood there, reading from papers as Beery watched them from one of the chairs.

"You'll be a big help," Dee said, sitting him down and slapping Beery on the arm to get his attention. "Herb."

"Eh?"

"Got a backup." She gestured toward Tom.

"Wonderful!"

He knew he wasn't going to like the answer if he asked what was going on, because he knew by now that questions like "what is going on?" "what happened?" and "what is that?" never seemed to have benign or pleasant answers at Hogwarts.

But he asked anyway.

"What is this?"

"What does it look like?" Dee shot back, as if the answer were obvious.

"From the top," Beery yelled to the children on the platform.

They started reading from their papers in flat, monotone voices, vaguely gesturing with their free hands and having less expression on their faces than rocks.

"Is this a play?"

Dee blinked at him. "Wow. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"But why am I here?"

"There are some parts that require extra lines to be read," said Beery, not taking his eyes off what was apparently the stage. "It's helpful to have someone read them while the children audition."

Tom shrugged. "That's wonderful. But why am _I_ here?"

"Because I can't stay, and Herb's got to watch," Dee explained.

Well, this was certainly not a thing he would be doing. He wanted to get up and walk out, but… There was something so infuriating about the students' atrocious performance that he could not bring himself to leave. It was as if they were committing some kind of violent crime against acting. It was painful to watch, yet impossible to look away.

Travesty. That was the word he was looking for. _Travesty_.

"What play is this?" he asked Beery after several minutes of unbearable pain.

"It's a little adaptation of _Three Brothers_ I wrote last term."

" _Three Brothers?"_

"Yeah," said Dee. "You know _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , of course, don't you?"

"No."

Dee and Beery glanced at each other in surprise.

"It's a story out of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,"_ Beery explained. "Old children's book."

The title sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn't exactly spend much of his childhood reading wizard folk tales. Or any of it, for that matter. "And what is it about?"

"Well," said Dee, "three brothers are traveling together, and they come across a deadly river. They use magic to build a bridge-"

"Which I interpret as man overcoming adversity," Beery added.

"-and Death is angry at them for cheating him-"

"A commentary on society's hatred for the unique and special."

"-and decides to trick them by offering each brother a gift."

"Or 'weapon of temptation,' as I like to call-"

"Herb, if you don't shut up, I'm going to shoot you in the head with your bloody weapon of temptation," Dee told him. "Anyway…"

She summarized the rest of the story, going through each brother's request and subsequent idiocy, finally ending with what Tom guessed was the moral of the thing: a scene of the youngest brother walking off with Death.

"I don't get it."

They stared at him.

"That is the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard," he stated. "Death making an all-powerful wand? A zombie stone? What kind of nonsense fairy tale is this?"

"Well," Beery said slowly, "most playwrights do tend to interpret it a bit too literally. That's why I made an adaptation for the modern era." He handed Tom a copy of the script.

It was apparent after just the first page that it was rubbish. "Why is there singing?"

"Why _wouldn't_ there be singing? I only get one play a year, Tom. It's _got_ to be a musical."

He wondered why he was still sitting there, entertaining the idea that any of this was worth his time. "Well," he said, standing and tossing the script onto the chair, hoping he'd never see it again, "I wish you the best of-"

"Sit down, boy," Dee commanded. "We're not done with you yet."

He sat.

After about ten minutes (or possibly an infinity) of torture, Dee disappeared to teach a flying class, and Tom was left alone with Beery.

He sat through two auditions before becoming outraged enough to start commenting on them.

"Hang on, he's supposed to be Death?" he asked, pointing to the short child standing in the middle of the stage, grinning like an idiot while reading the line "I shall take what is mine! For I am Death!"

"Er- yes," Beery whispered, "that's the role he's auditioning for."

"Then why is he smiling?"

"What?"

"He's supposed to be Death. Why on earth is he smiling?"

"I don't know. But I think he's actually doing pretty well-"

"He looks like he just got a shiny new racing broom for his birthday."

Beery thought for a moment. "You have a point…"

Luckily, he ended up not having to read any horrid lines, but that was mostly because he kept interrupting the auditions to point out how horrible the students were and how equally horrible the script was.

"What exactly are you trying to do, Selwyn?"

"His girlfriend just died, sir. I was being mopey-"

"Yes, I noticed. Just taking a guess here, but he probably felt _grief_ , not whatever the hell slight depression _you_ were exhibiting."

"The script says 'mopey,' sir."

"It shouldn't."

Then, minutes later…

"No singing."

"Sir, the next part is a song-"

"I don't care. No singing."

"Er- Tom," Beery cut in, "the scene doesn't really work if it's not performed as a musical number."

"Then it probably should not have been written not to make sense without being performed as a musical number," Tom said rather loudly.

It went on like that for several auditions, until he realized suddenly that Beery had stopped talking altogether and was just staring at him. But it wasn't in anger, which would have made sense, given the fact that he'd just spent the last half hour criticizing every single page of the man's unreadable script.

No, Beery was staring at Tom like he'd just discovered the secret to life.

"I think I found my assistant director," he breathed.

"No you did not."

But he was standing now, and looking particularly inspired. "Oh, yes. It will be wonderful."

"No it will not."

"Oh, it will."

"Is Dee not your assistant whatever?"

Beery shook his head. "No, she doesn't have the time. Or the patience."

"And you assume that I do?"

Beery just kept staring at him in childlike excitement.

That was the point, finally, at which he attempted to leave. But the idiot followed him the entire length of the Great Hall and out into the corridor.

"Practice is every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday," he said, walking quickly to keep up as Tom attempted to flee.

"I don't care."

"And we'll need to make sure we decide on a date for opening night as soon as possible."

"I don't care."

"Oh, and I will need your script edits to be completed by next week."

Tom stopped in the middle of the corridor and Beery nearly walked right into him. "I want nothing to do with this," he said in a moderately threatening voice.

Beery frowned. "But you were so enthusiastic-"

"I was criticizing your atrocious writing!" he yelled.

"What's going on?"

Ilania and Peggy came around the corner looking worried. "We heard shouting," said Peggy.

"Creative differences," Beery explained. "Tom is my assistant director this year. For the play."

Bloody bastard. "I am _not_ -"

"Oh, how wonderful!" said Peggy as Ilania tried desperately not to laugh at him.

Before he could even attempt to argue, someone else rounded the corner into what was apparently the world's busiest hallway.

"Did I hear yelling?" asked Slughorn.

"Herbert says Tom's the assistant director for the play this year," Ilania told him, still trying not to laugh.

Slughorn snorted. "What? You're _joking_."

"It's true, apparently!"

Tom tried to contain himself as his annoyance turned to rage. He failed. "I want _nothing_ to do with this preposterous, senseless, terribly written disaster!" he shouted.

They seemed surprised by his sudden outburst.

"Oh," Beery said, clearly crestfallen. "That's fine. I understand…"

The others looked at Tom like he'd just kicked a puppy.

He had far too many _important_ things to worry about already without adding a ridiculous, pointless school play to the list.

But that godforsaken script was so utterly terrible…

"Give it to me," he spat, ripping the script out of Beery's hand. Without another word he stormed away from the small crowd of arseholes that had collected, fuming with rage.

"I'll need it back by next week!" Beery yelled after him, smiling.

* * *

Tom did not think much about Kettleburn's offer to help with his forest problem until the man showed up at his door one evening, carrying a massive machete and smiling like a lunatic. Out of context, he probably looked like he was about to commit a murder.

"How's it going, Tommy boy?" he greeted jovially.

"Please don't ever call me that again."

He laughed. "No, I like it. You're Tommy Boy, now," he declared, slapping Tom on the shoulder and making his way into the flat.

Silvanus Kettleburn was going to die.

"Let's see what we've got here," he said, sounding far more cheerful than one would expect him to be after having committed an accidental massacre earlier in the week. He headed for the bedroom, which was not difficult to find because the roots had, by now, grown into the hallway.

Tom did not care for people visiting him where he lived, and he liked them wandering around his bedroom even less. But if he did not accept _someone's_ help, there was a chance he would be without a place to live soon - unless he didn't mind sleeping on roots that may or may not try to strangle him at some point.

"Ah," said Kettleburn, examining the ceiling. "This shouldn't be a problem." He started to hack at some of the largest roots and, surprisingly, he was able to cut through them. "See, those scholarly types never think to try the simplest solutions," he explained. "If they can't fix something with a wand, they think it can't be fixed!"

"Right."

"Don't get me wrong, Ilania is as bright as they come." He stopped his violent chopping for a moment and looked over at Tom. "Well, you know that, of course," he said with a chuckle.

What the hell was he talking about?

_Hack hack._

"I must admit," he continued, "I am jealous." _Hack hack_.

"Jealous?"

_Hack hack._

"Well, I was certain we were going to get married, me and her." _Hack._ "Wasn't meant to be, I guess." _Hack Hack._ "That's fine, you know." _Hack._ "I'm sure you two will be-" _hack hack hack_ "-very happy."

"What are you-"

_Hack._

"What are you talking about?"

"You and Ilania, of course." _Hack hack._ "You're together, aren't you?"

Kettleburn turned around, and all Tom saw was a large, jealous man with a giant knife in his hand.

"No," he blurted.

"What?"

"Not together."

"Really? Why would she… So you're not dating at all, then?"

"Correct."

"She's… single?"

"I would assume so."

"And you're… single?"

"Yes."

He should not have said that. That was a mistake.

"I see," Kettleburn said slowly, looking like he was contemplating something. "Still hope for me yet, then, I suppose." Then he smiled at Tom. "In the meantime…"

Well, this did not go in the direction he'd hoped it would.

"Did I ever tell you," Kettleburn said, gripping his machete tightly and pretending to examine it, "that I've made love on all seven continents?"

Jesus Christ.

"What's going to happen with the centaurs?" Tom asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

The terrifyingly suggestive look on the man's face melted away immediately. "I'm not sure," he said quietly.

"Can anything be done?"

"Only if we can get the… survivors to talk to us so that we can help them. I wanted to get Albus involved again – he always manages to make them see sense – but he didn't seem too keen on the idea."

"You spoke to him?"

"Yesterday. On the seventh floor. I was looking for Ilania but found him instead, just standing there, in front of that troll tapestry everyone hates."

Tom suddenly turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Kettleburn asked, looking extremely disappointed.

"To get my Sword back," he muttered as he walked out the door.

He had expected the Room of Requirement to look as it did when he had first found it – an indoor landfill of lost and broken and forbidden things. He did always wonder why the history books called it the Room of _Requirement_ , though, if the things you required also required searching through a maze of rubbish to find them.

But when he entered the Room this time, it was something completely different.

It was small, about half the size of his classroom, and largely empty except for a table and two chairs. A dim light shone from some unknown source directly onto the middle of the table, and a small, square window to the outside had appeared on the wall, with metal bars set in front of the glass.

There was no sign of Dumbledore anywhere nearby. But there was no other logical reason for him to be lurking around on the seventh-floor, right in front of the entrance, other than to use the Room.

Then the door opened, and in walked Dumbledore with impeccable timing. As soon as he entered, his eyes fell over the table, the light, and then Tom, who was standing there, looking as surprised as he was.

"Well, this is inconvenient," he muttered.

He turned around to leave, but the door had disappeared.

And then it made sense. Evidently, the Room of Requirement had fashioned itself into some sort of interrogation chamber. For once, the castle was on Tom's side.

Dumbledore took a seat at the table, seemingly resigned to his fate, or not caring much about his fate, or just tired of standing. It was difficult to tell – his face showed no emotion.

"So," said Tom, taking the seat opposite, "which one are you?"

"Which one of _what_?"

"Which Dumbledore?"

"Oh. The fun one?"

It appeared the impostor truly did not care about making an effort to hide himself. Tom was determined to take full advantage of the circumstances, so he attempted to _finally_ remove the disguise the man was wearing while he could not escape.

" _Revelio."_

Nothing.

" _Finite."_

Still nothing.

" _Invenio Veritatem."_

"Ooh," said Dumbledore, "getting old-fashioned, now."

He tried several more spells, but the only thing that happened was that the man's hair became slightly grayer.

"We all have insecurities," Dumbledore said in response to this. "I despise looking decrepit."

At that point, he was forced to consider a possibility he had not fully considered before. He had been operating under the assumption that the impostor was _disguising_ himself as Dumbledore. But it was looking more and more likely that this lunatic _was_ , in fact, Dumbledore.

But he could not be the same arsehole that had been the bane of Tom's existence for thirteen years. He was rude, opportunistic, and unabashedly arrogant. A very different kind of arsehole. So, either this man was disguising himself in a way magic could not reveal, or Albus Dumbledore had become senile and developed a different personality.

Or… there really were two of them.

No. The universe could not possibly be _that_ cruel. Unless there was a secret twin that no one knew about, it didn't make sense.

"Tell me who you are."

"I am but a humble servant."

"Whose humble servant?"

"I am far too humble to say."

Tom rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Please do not make me kill you. I do not have the patience for it today."

"You don't seem to have much patience at all, friend."

There was a chance – a small chance – that this idiot was even more intolerable than the real Dumbledore.

Slowly, he got up, walked over to the man, and bent down to gaze into his eyes, determined to carry out a rather forced version of Legilimency. Dumbledore merely gave him a friendly smile in response, not bothering to look away or resist. It would be unpleasant for both of them, but Tom didn't care. He just wanted to… find…

Nothing was happening. It was like staring at a wall.

"That won't work," said Dumbledore, putting a single finger on Tom's forehead and pushing him away as if he were a pesky fly.

"Why not?"

"Because I am far cleverer, far more powerful, and far better at mind games than you."

"I doubt it. And so much for being humble."

He shrugged. "The stating of facts does not equate to braggadocio just because said facts paint me in a positive light and I happen to be the one saying them."

Tom pointed his wand directly at the man's face, ignoring the growing concern in the back of his mind that there really was an imbalance of power between them. "Who are you? Answer me."

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm not sure why 'Albus Dumbledore' is such a hard name to understand. I could say it in an accent, if you like. I do an incredibly accurate American-"

"You are not Albus Dumbledore. You're nothing like him."

"True, the other one is far too self-righteous to be as witty and cynical as me."

"So, you admit there's another one? What did you do with him?"

"Why in the name of Merlin would I tell you that? Hardly a strategic move on my part. She would not be very happy with me if I-"

"Who is 'she?'"

Dumbledore stared at him for a moment. "She likes you, you know. It's a pity. You'd have been useful."

Tom had had enough. He raised his wand, unsure of whether he was going to attempt to incapacitate the man or kill him and having no idea what he would do after either of those scenarios.

But with a casual wave, the impostor sent his wand flying out of his hand and into the air. It landed on the floor with an embarrassing clatter, several feet away.

The room responded in kind. Large, metal manacles appeared around Dumbledore's wrists and then attached themselves to the table. He was well and truly detained.

Furious, Tom picked his wand up off the floor, still choosing to ignore the nagging sense of powerlessness he was feeling. Then he took the seat across from Dumbledore and glared at him. He was determined to get _something_ useful out of this ridiculous meeting.

"Where is the Sword?" he demanded.

"The what?"

"The Sword you stole from me."

"Oh, that. It'll show up eventually."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that it is not currently located in a place that may be considered to be in our immediate vicinity, but at some point in the future shall manifest itself to exist in a place that may be considered to be in our immediate vicinity. Most likely."

"I hate you."

"Yes, that sort of sentiment seems consistent with your character."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's alright. Not all of us have the ability to express emotions intelligently. I'm sure you excel at other-"

"STOP TALKING!"

There was one strategy he hadn't tried yet that had always served him well in the past and, at the moment, he was certainly angry enough for it.

He stood and, with overwhelming satisfaction, pointed his wand in the man's face one more time.

" _Crucio_."

Nothing happened.

"That's unfortunate," said Dumbledore with a smile.

He stood there for a moment, a strange and unfamiliar sense of inadequacy overwhelming him. He could not recall a time when magic had failed him like this, and it was an emotional crisis he was in no fit state to deal with at present.

Then, a very unexpected voice sounded in his head, loud and friendly and wise:

' _Those scholarly types never think to try the simplest solutions._ _If they can't fix something with a wand, they think it can't be fixed!'_

He cast a spell to remove the shackles from Dumbledore's wrists. "Stand up," he commanded as he placed his wand on the table.

Dumbledore stood, still looking unimpressed and somewhat bored by the whole situation.

And then Tom grabbed him by his robes and slammed him up against the wall.

"What did you do with the Sword?" he asked quietly, inches from the impostor's face.

Now struggling to breathe, Dumbledore looked far less bored than he did five seconds ago. "I'm- I'm imp- impressed," he spluttered.

"What did you do with the Sword?" Tom said again, tightening his grip.

"Not- not here." The man's face was turning an unpleasant shade of red now.

"What do you mean 'not here?'"

"She has it."

"Who is she?"

He would not answer, even though he appeared to be on the verge of fainting.

"WHO IS SHE?"

No response.

Tom let him go and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath.

Before he had decided whether further physical violence was too barbaric for his tastes, a considerable amount of shouting and commotion could be heard coming from outside. Through the tiny square window the room had conjured, he saw a crowd of people gathering on the grounds and looking back at the castle.

He had no idea whether the Room of Requirement would remain a prison cell if he left it. There was a chance that his not being present would remove the Room's obligation to cater to his needs, and Dumbledore would escape. But he wasn't going to be able to stay there forever anyway, so he decided to test it.

"I'll be back," he told the impostor, who was still on the ground, massaging his neck.

"Look- looking forward to it."

The corridor was empty. In fact, as he made his way down to the first floor, he did not see anyone at all. By the time he made it outside, it looked as if the entire school was standing there, in the grass, looking confused. 

"What's going on?" he asked Grayson, the first teacher he came across.

"Forest," Grayson said simply, pointing at the roof.

It appeared that the Mystery Forest had done the same thing to the outside of the castle that it had done to his flat. Massive blue and purple roots had exploded out of a hole on the side of the building and were winding their way up toward the roof like monstrous, unearthly vines.

Kettleburn was standing a few feet away and looking dejectedly at the machete that he was still carrying, as if he had just realized it was woefully inadequate.

So, January ended well.


	16. That's Not Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Thank you to AFamiliarWitch and unspeakable3 for, once again, helping me actually get things done!

He had returned to the Room of Requirement a few days later to find several stacks of books sitting on the table and Dumbledore lounging in one of the chairs - which had, at some point, changed itself into a sofa.

"Where did all this come from?" he demanded.

Dumbledore shrugged, closing the book he had been reading that previously did not exist. "I suppose your special room is under the impression that I would be much easier to interrogate if I were placated first. I cannot say I disagree."

Tom wanted to be annoyed. He really did. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

The sudden expansion of the Mystery Forest had caused quite a lot of chaos, and the entire staff had spent the last seventy-two hours making the castle safe enough to live in while ignoring the fact that it probably should have been permanently evacuated a month ago.

He was tired. _P_ _hysically_ tired.

Apparently, if you were younger than the rest of the staff, it was assumed that you would have no problem staying up all night, hacking at roots that shouldn't exist and fixing classrooms while everyone else went to bed thinking "ah, he's young. He can handle it."

He originally had every intention of continuing his interrogation of the impostor, even though he was exhausted, but when he walked in to see that the prison cell had decided to change into a slightly less uncomfortable reading room, he felt somewhat discouraged.

He sat down, moved a newly manifested pile of books out of the way, then laid his head on the hard, cool surface of the table.

Yes, this was definitely proper behavior befitting the Greatest Dark Wizard of All Time.

"Rough night, I take it?" Dumbledore asked with a grin.

"Please do not talk to me."

"I've had nights like those, I can assure you."

"Please stop talking."

"Revelry, dancing, music… And, of course, heavy inebriation. Oh, to be young again."

"I do not have a hangover."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Oh? You have leaves in your hair. I assumed you had participated in some sort of drunken excursion, as young people are wont to do, and ended up deep in the Forest somewhere, likely getting intimate with a lovely-"

"Stop talking before I kill you."

"Am I to understand there will be no violent continuation of our previous conversation, then?"

Tom did not respond.

Normally, the interrogation of an enemy would not include a lengthy pause during which the interrogator disappeared for several days, and then returned showing a distinct unwillingness to do anything by laying his head on the table like a drunk at closing time. That was not how proper interrogations worked.

But it really didn't matter because he had, so far, found no reasonable method of extracting information from this bastard.

The Cruciatus Curse did not work, Legilimency did not work, and he couldn't even keep his fucking wand in his hand, apparently, because the impostor had the ability to employ disarming magic that completely ignored the safeguards put on his wand specifically to prevent disarming.

The only method that _had_ provided any answers was not a method he had any ability or desire to use at the moment.

So, he was going to sit there with his head on the table and hope that Dumbledore would kindly decide to reveal his secrets out of… he didn't know. Pity?

"Not likely," Dumbledore said suddenly.

Tom lifted his head. "What?"

"I will not likely reveal my secrets out of pity. But I do _have_ pity for you, friend. I, too, have had the unpleasant experience of working with colleagues who-"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How are you… You should not be able to-"

"Read your mind?"

"No, that's not-"

"Yes, I am aware you hate that term. You prefer 'Legilimency' because it sounds fancier."

Tom was standing now. "What you're doing is not possible."

Dumbledore ignored him and rambled on. "You are quite loud, you know. Do you always shout in your head when you're thinking? I thought I ought to say something. Perhaps you might benefit from some sort of anger management-"

"Not possible." Maybe if he said it enough times, it would be true.

Dumbledore thought for a moment. "Unfortunately, you may be correct. It seems you are beyond the point where any sort of psychological intervention would help."

"I- what? No, I mean it is not possible for you to penetrate-"

The impostor snorted.

"-a mind like mine. There is no way you can-"

"I understand the confusion." He held up the book he'd been reading. "It seems the magic here is woefully underdeveloped. It's unfortunate, you having to use such primitive methods…"

"What do you mean 'here?'"

A bell rang in the distance, indicating the start of classes. He would have no time to sleep, not that he would be able to with the sudden realization that this idiot had been reading his mind the whole bloody time they'd been talking. Why had he not just gone to bed? He knew he wasn't going to accomplish anything by coming here.

"I was wondering the same thing myself, actually," said Dumbledore.

"Get out of my head, old man."

At least he was able to confirm that the Room would not change (much) if he left it.

"It's quite a perceptive little space."

"Stop it."

He could not let anyone that was able to penetrate- (the impostor snorted again) -his mind so freely continue to live. But if he killed Dumbledore now, he would never find the Sword… And anyway, if the Cruciatus Curse was useless, it was likely the Killing Curse would be as well. So, short of a knife to the throat, he wasn't even certain he _could_ kill the man-

"Probably not."

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

* * *

Despite wanting to sleep for a week and then spend all his time interrogating his prisoner and subsequently stabbing him to death with the Sword he stole, Tom was forced to turn his focus back to teaching, and to something he had been dreading since the beginning of the year.

He had no desire at all to do it, but it was already in his lesson plans because Dumbledore had _insisted_ that it be included in his lesson plans.

He forced himself to enter the staff room. Tyre was, as always, sitting by the fire.

"Cillian, do you have a moment?"

"Sure. What can I do for you, son?"

"I need…" He sighed. "I need a Boggart."

"Is it that time of year again? I hate those bloody monsters. Eh… I'll talk to my supplier. Well, I say 'supplier…' Pest control, really. I can probably have one for you in a couple days."

"Thank you."

He shrugged. "Good luck with the lessons. Just pray you don't get a wet one."

Tom stopped on his way out the door. "A what now?"

"Heh. A wet one. Almost every year some kid's got a fear of jellyfish or bog monsters or something disgusting like that, and it usually ends up wet and messy."

"Jellyfish?"

"Aye. They're lethal, apparently. Anyway, Merrythought said she had a kid once with the fear of being put inside out. Blood and innards all over the classroom. Thank god the kid managed the spell. Honestly, the things children come up with." He shook his head.

"Fantastic."

The Boggart came a few days later, sealed inside an old, plain wardrobe. He was not looking forward to the lessons at all, not only because children really did come up with the most disgusting ideas, but also because he generally wanted nothing to do with it.

Or, rather, he did not want _it_ to have anything to do with _him_.

After the wardrobe had arrived, he stared at it for a long time.

It sat there, innocuous and silent and taking up a considerable amount of space in the middle of his classroom. A completely normal, nondescript wardrobe with a completely normal, incorporeal non-being inside.

All he had to do was leave it alone until the next day's lesson, and he would deal with the unpleasantness then. There would be far too many students in the room for it to have any reason to focus on him. And even if it _did_ decide to focus on him, it was not as if the thing could actually frighten him.

Could it?

Perhaps it was better to know ahead of time, just to be safe.

No. He did not care what form it would take, as it was merely a psychological manifestation. Thus, whatever it turned into would be harmless.

He stared at it some more, promising himself he wasn't going to think about it and then promptly thinking about it. He was fairly certain he knew what his greatest fear was, or at least the general idea of it. It was likely something abstract and ineffable, like the concept of death. What would that look like?

Well, nothing, he supposed, if it was ineffable.

No, it didn't matter. He really, _truly_ could not have cared less. He was perfectly capable of just leaving it alone. No curiosity about it at all.

He opened the wardrobe and the entire room exploded.

He swore loudly as desks and chairs were violently thrown against the walls. The space had filled with fire for a brief moment, which dissipated quickly, leaving heavy, gray smoke in its place. The Boggart sat there now as a pile of metal shrapnel surrounded by concrete rubble. In the distance - or whatever the Boggart equated to distance - there was the sound of a siren.

Bombs.

Why, after almost a decade, would he still be afraid of bloody bombs? Utterly ridiculous. Clearly the thing was confused.

He walked up to the shrapnel and kicked it in frustration. "Bastard," he muttered.

And then he smelled it.

It was a smoky, metallic smell, like dirt mixed with blood and set on fire. And it was painfully familiar.

It was unfortunate that smells recalled memories so easily. All he could think about were the countless trips to the Underground, where he and the few other orphans who hadn't been evacuated over the summer sat for hours every time the sirens went off. The smell was everywhere - a pungent, persistent reminder of the destruction that surrounded them - and it had lingered in the streets of the city for what felt like _years_ afterward.

In the tube station, there had been no way to tell time unless someone had a watch - which, of course, no one ever did. Not that you could really see one in the dark. And the clocks that hung on the walls had all been broken. So, they would sit in silence for an unknown length of time, waiting with pounding hearts and shaking hands to hear the telltale signs of bombing that would either come or not come. And he would think about the wand in his pocket, clinging to the idea that it would save him, should saving be necessary, but knowing that, in fact, it probably wouldn't.

He came out of his unpleasant reverie even angrier than before.

"You can really stop now," he said, knowing full well that talking to a Boggart was useless.

It responded with more sirens, followed by an impressive imitation of airplanes flying overhead.

He cursed the thing out of existence.

"Cillian," he said to Tyre at dinner that evening, "I may need another Boggart."

"What happened to the first one?"

"It was broken."

Tyre seemed confused. "Broken? Is that even possible?"

"Sure."

* * *

The Boggart lessons, unsurprisingly, did not go according to plan, but at least he didn't suffer a repeat of the bomb incident.

Instead, he had to deal with a student whose greatest fear was a plague, to which the Boggart had responded by making it appear as if everyone in the room had painful, red pustules all over their skin. It took an unreasonable amount of time to calm the class down.

"But it looks so real, sir," one of them said, scratching furiously at his arm.

"It's not." He turned to the idiot with the plague fear and glared at him. "Do the spell, Aronson. We don't have time for this."

"Don't come near me!" Aronson screamed, backing into a corner. "You're all infected!"

"I told you, it's just an illusion. I would be more than happy to curse you with a _real_ plague if you like."

That brought the boy to his senses.

This was followed by a student whose greatest fear was, of all things, cows.

It stood there, staring at them, chewing on something in its mouth and relieving itself on the floor. Completely harmless.

"BLOODY UGLY FUCKING HORRIBLE BASTARD-"

"It's… a cow, Trent."

"I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"

"A _cow_ , Trent. Do the spell and stop screaming. Good lord."

"UGLY BASTARD-"

So, that took a while.

Most of the children managed the spell easily enough. Most, but not all. Unfortunately, Boggarts were considered Dark for a reason.

"Go on, Clarkson," he said to the small Ravenclaw boy who looked like he wanted nothing more than to become invisible so that he did not have to do this.

Merrythought's voice echoed in Tom's head: _'Go on, Riddle. Everyone's got to try it at least once.'_

"I don't want to, sir." He was more terrified than any of the others had been, and he hadn't even faced the thing yet.

Before Tom could respond, the other children shoved Clarkson forward until he was close enough for the Boggart to react.

It morphed into a rather average-looking man in brown robes who stared at Clarkson with disgust on his face. There were confused murmurs among the students, but Tom had a fairly good idea of what was happening. He'd been expecting to see something like this at least once.

"Remember the spell," he said quietly as the man stepped closer.

Tears were streaming down the boy's face. He raised his wand, hand shaking. It was then that the Boggart decided to speak, which Boggarts were not supposed to be able to do.

"Don't you raise your wand at me, boy," it said in a low, threatening voice.

"The spell," Tom said again.

"I can't-"

The man flew into a rage. "This is my house, boy! You will show me respect. You're lucky I didn't throw you out on the street! Is that what you want?"

Clarkson dropped his wand and sat down on the floor, holding onto his knees and rocking back and forth.

He would not stop crying, so Tom sent him to the Hospital Wing, along with a sealed note to give to Madam Sable, instructing her to ask the boy about his family situation.

That was the protocol, anyway.

Still, he wished Dumbledore, in all his righteousness and wisdom, could have been there to see that. Then perhaps he would not have been so insistent upon throwing that lesson at children every year.

The next class was somehow even more annoying.

There were two methods of dispelling a Boggart. One pushed it back into its container, to be dealt with later or hidden away. The other required an immense amount of power and essentially removed the thing from existence altogether.

He had lectured them on both methods, and instructed them to use the former, which sat well within their level of ability. No child, and very few adults, could even attempt the latter method.

But some virulent strain of stupidity had evidently infected the Hufflepuffs, because quite a few of them were insistent upon trying it anyway.

" _De Rien!"_

"Tilly, why are you-"

" _À Rien!"_

The Boggart, now in the shape of a bear, shuddered slightly before rearing on its hind legs and roaring loudly.

"Sorry, Professor. I thought that would work."

"I told you to use the standard spell."

"I know, sir," she said, speaking very quickly, "but it just felt right, you know? I thought I should at least try it. I mean, you wouldn't teach it to us if you didn't think-"

"Come on, Tilly!" yelled the girl who was next in line. "Stop flirting and get out of the way. I want to try!" She was almost bouncing with excitement.

When it was her turn, she, too, tried the more difficult spell, but with far more unfortunate results.

" _De Rien!"_

"Please don't-"

" _À Rien!"_

The spider that she had been facing exploded into thousands of tinier, infinitely more annoying spiders. They were everywhere. It was almost as chaotic as the plague had been, with most students jumping up on desks to escape the writhing mass that now covered the room.

It went on like that for half an hour, each one of them attempting ridiculous feats of magic, failing utterly, then commenting loudly about how amazing the whole experience was while the Gryffindors stared at them in confusion.

"You're next, MacLeod."

MacLeod paced back and forth with a hungry look on his face while he waited for Tom to open the wardrobe. When the Boggart appeared, it came in the form of an obnoxiously colorful clown.

MacLeod seemed determined. He pointed his wand steadily at the clown's big, brightly colored head, but before he could say the incantation, the clown took out a large horn and started making loud honking noises and smiling mischievously.

MacLeod dropped his wand and ran at full speed toward the Boggart.

"AHHH!"

He pinned it to the ground and started punching it in the face repeatedly.

"MacLeod, that is not the method I instructed you to-"

"AHHH!"

Tom sighed.

Either something odd was happening, or he had, for most of his life, seriously underestimated Hufflepuffs.

No, that wasn't possible. Something odd was definitely happening.

"What is wrong with you all?" he demanded.

"What do you mean, sir?" one of them asked innocently as MacLeod continued to scream and violently attack the Boggart in the background.

"You know exactly what I mean."

No one spoke.

"If someone doesn't tell me what is happening, I will start taking House points from each of you."

More silence. Apparently, that was not intimidating enough.

"And you will all receive detention."

Nothing.

There was a sudden tinkling sound, and a tiny, empty vial rolled across the floor and stopped between Tom and the students, who were making poor attempts to pretend they hadn't noticed it. He picked up the vial and examined it.

"What is this?"

Nobody came forward.

He had to hand it to Hufflepuffs. Their solidarity was impressive.

* * *

"These edits are… interesting," said Beery, shuffling through the perfectly written script Tom had given him. "They'll definitely require some set and costume… changes."

"You're welcome."

"I'm glad to see you kept it as a musical."

"That was the agreement. I can make whatever changes I want as long as there is still… singing."

"Yes, but-"

"But?"

Beery smiled politely. "No offense meant, Tom, but musicals tend to be a bit less… morose."

He was offended. "They all die in the end. It's morose. My portrayal is accurate."

"Well, yes, but the story is meant to teach a _lesson_ , you know. One we should try to convey-"

"What lesson? Don't make shady deals with someone calling himself 'Death' and expect a good outcome? Or don't build bridges over rivers?"

Beery sighed. "I suppose we'll see if it works in the first rehearsal. You are staying for rehearsal tonight, yes?"

He had promised himself he would rewrite Beery's pathetic script and that would be the end of it. "No. I did what I said I was going to do."

"Right, but you should be there! We need you to tell us whether we are accurately portraying your- er- complex writing."

Clever bastard.

Tom did not have time for such nonsense.

He also was not willing to allow his writing to be butchered by children who could not act and a director who wanted everything to be either a cheerful song or a poorly reasoned commentary on society.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the Great Hall once again, watching students act poorly.

He decided he would stay for one rehearsal – _one_ – just to make certain they weren't going to turn the whole thing into a travesty, and to threaten them with torture and maiming if they did.

They managed to make it through several scenes without issue, but when the first musical number came along, things became a bit chaotic.

At the beginning of the song, their Cadmus - a boy named Selwyn - started screaming the words, and it took a while for them to realize that screaming was apparently his version of singing and that he wasn't having some sort of emotional breakdown.

"ALRIGHT!" yelled Beery, interrupting him mid-scream. "We'll… We'll work on that."

"Yes, sir. Understood, sir. I'll have it down next time, sir." He was talking very quickly and bouncing around with a strange amount of excitement for someone who was being forced to sing in a school play.

The next lines were a sad lament about the character's fiancé dying horribly. But Selwyn did not seem sad at all. In fact, he made it sound like the woman's death was the most exciting event of his life.

"Selwyn," Tom called.

"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir?"

"Your part-"

"It's a great part. I love it. Can't wait to-"

"Your part does not require obnoxious enthusiasm. You are supposed to be _melancholy_."

"Yeah. Right. I know. Melancholy. Definitely. Got it, sir."

He still looked like he was ready to burst with excitement, right up to the moment his head suddenly started expanding like a balloon and he began to drift upwards toward the ceiling.

"Well, that's not normal," said Tom dryly.

"This is amazing!" Selwyn yelled as they all watched his slow ascent and Beery threw charm after charm at him in a desperate attempt to pull him down before he fell.

Tom was reminded of the Hufflepuffs and their recent unusual behavior. He was willing to bet Selwyn had an empty vial stashed away somewhere.

It happened again less than an hour later. They were reviewing the bridge scene, and while the other children ran through their lines, the horribly incompetent boy Beery had chosen to play Death had begun to sweat and shake.

"No need to be nervous, Barker," Beery assured him.

"I'm not nervous, sir. I don't feel well."

The other children backed away from him a few paces, which was a good thing, because seconds later, the script he was holding caught fire.

He dropped it on the ground, where it shriveled into ashes. Beery handed him another script, which promptly burst into flames the moment he touched it. Then his robes started to spark.

"Barker," said Tom, "is there a reason you have suddenly become highly combustible?"

"No- no, sir," he mumbled as he removed his robes, which immediately turned into a small pyre once they fell to the floor.

By the end of the night, half the cast had disappeared due to mysterious "illnesses." Judging by the number of tiny vials Tom had been seeing, it was probably some illegal potion or other.

It wasn't unheard of. In his third year, there was a series of accidents during exams involving a new intelligence-enhancing potion that, instead of making students cleverer, left them unable to speak in anything but mathematical equations and, occasionally, rendered them comatose. It had been quite nice, actually. Meals in the Great Hall during that time were pleasantly quiet.

* * *

On his way to breakfast the next morning he discovered a small, purple envelope on his desk.

His first name was written on the front in loopy black letters. He opened it, and a cloud of glitter escaped and rose into the air like a colorful puff of smoke. He waved it away and unfolded the letter.

It said:

_I know your secret._

_Love,  
You Know Who_

Who the hell would call themselves "You Know Who?" How was he supposed to have any idea who they were? And what secret were they claiming to have knowledge of? He had a lot of secrets. Enough to create a categorizing system for them. Not that he ever would…

He threw the letter away and headed down to breakfast, wondering if it was a joke or if he was going to have to kill someone.

In the corridors, it seemed like every student that walked by was looking at him and smiling. No – _smirking_. It was as if they all knew something he didn't.

Tyre reached the doors to the Great Hall at the same time Tom did. "Morning," he said. "You're a murderer."

Tom froze. "What?"

"I said these cold mornings are murder."

"Oh. Right."

At the teachers' table he took a seat next to Ilania, who was staring blankly ahead, ignoring the food on her plate.

"Hello," he said.

She turned her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes widened in what was presumably fear, and without a word, she got up and left.

"Good morning to you, too," he muttered.

He took some bacon from the middle of the table, set it on his plate, then watched it fly into the air as an owl landed with a loud thud right in front of him, knocking everything everywhere.

It deposited a large, pink envelope onto the bacon tray and flew off in a huff, tipping his glass of orange juice over for good measure.

He removed the now greasy envelope from the bacon, wondering if it was another sinister note, and if someone was attempting to blackmail him. Inside was a card covered in hearts. The message read:

_Thinking of you on this Valentine's Day._

_Love,  
A secret admirer_

Not a threatening note, but not much better.

Apparently, it was Valentine's Day. One of the most meaningless days of the year, second only to Christmas. He tossed the card aside. A student, no doubt. He had hoped that, after an entire term had passed, his unwanted popularity with the female student population would pass as well. Evidently not.

About five minutes later, another owl showed up, dropping two envelopes onto the table in front of him.

Before he could even reach for them, a third owl landed on the empty seat beside him and poked a small, red envelope his way.

By the time the fourth owl appeared, carrying five more colorful envelopes, he started catching the attention of the rest of the Hall.

Seventeen additional letters later, he had given up on eating, and almost everyone was watching him with great interest. He wished he could curse them all.

"That's quite a library," said Peggy, gesturing to the pile of envelopes as she sat down next to him. "Reminds me of Minerva's first year. Except the boys didn't send her cards. She did get enough flowers to fill a room, though."

"I see."

She smiled. "You killed your father."

He nearly choked on his orange juice. "What?"

"I said I don't know why they bother. They're never going to get anywhere with her. She won't even pay attention to men her own age."

"Right."

Something was wrong.

"Anyway," she continued, "the girls are worse. Watch yourself. They can be sneaky."

"Sneaky with what?"

"Love potions and the like."

"Brilliant."

He had no desire to open any of the letters, but decided it was probably better to do so, in case any more threatening notes showed up. And if whoever was foolish enough to threaten him was in the Hall at that very moment, watching, then they would see he was not intimidated.

Yes, this was a clever strategy.

So, he opened the first one, fully aware that most of the students and Peggy were still staring at him.

_You are mine. No one else's. Mine.  
x_

Well, that wasn't menacing at all.

The next one had a poem so awful he wanted to burn it right then and there and then remove the memory of ever having read it.

But the third letter said:

_How many have you killed?_

This one was much more specific. He glanced around the Hall nervously. There was no way to tell who was responsible or how much they knew.

The rest of the letters appeared to be benign Valentines, except for the last one.

_I know where they're hidden._

He stood up suddenly, took out his wand, and set the pile of letters on fire right on the table while the entire Hall looked on in confusion. So much for not appearing intimidated.

He made his way out of the Hall, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him, and the faces that clearly said, "we know all your secrets."

He needed to find the bastard behind this.

Back in the entrance hall he saw Grayson, who was walking in the other direction.

"You killed that girl," Grayson muttered as he passed by.

"What did you say?"

The old man turned around slowly and repeated, "you killed that girl. It was you."

"I don't- what are you-"

"He did," said someone from behind him. "Everyone knows about it."

He turned around to see who was speaking, but no one was there. And when he turned back, Grayson was gone.

He tried to calm himself. Clearly something was wrong. Either he was hallucinating, or someone had uncovered all his secrets and told the entire school about them. But who would do that? And why? And how would they know about-

"Professor!"

One of the seventh years was bounding toward him carrying a package wrapped in red paper.

"I got you something," she said sweetly. "For Valentine's Day."

"What?"

She offered him the package. "Open it!"

He was no fool. Whatever it was, it was probably laced with love potion. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Just open it!"

"No."

The girl looked confused and disappointed. Then she realized something. "Oh! Don't worry, it's not love potion. I'm not _that_ pathetic."

He surveyed the corridor. It was filled with students who had all stopped to watch him. Plenty of witnesses. If she poisoned him, she would not get away with it.

He opened the package carefully. It was a small, black book.

It took several seconds for him to comprehend what he was looking at.

His diary. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, with witnesses all around him, holding the diary he had made into a Horcrux.

He backed away from the girl, who was now sporting a fantastically evil grin.

"Are you alright, Professor?"

"What is this? Where did you get this?" He had his wand out and pointed at her before he could stop himself.

"It's just a box of chocolates, sir!"

He looked down and, sure enough, it was not the diary he was holding, but a small, square box.

"What on _earth_ are you doing?"

Minerva had appeared, looking furious. She shooed the girl away and then rounded on him. "Is there a reason you had your wand pointed at a student?" she asked angrily.

When he didn't answer, she started to look concerned.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You look distressed."

"Do I?"

"What happened?"

How did she know something had happened? "Nothing," he said, scrutinizing her with poorly hidden suspicion. Then he glanced up and down the corridor. He felt eyes on him from somewhere.

He was being watched.

He could sense it.

"Tom, maybe you should go see-"

"If you tell me to get a psychological evaluation again, Minerva, I swear to god I will blow up the entire Hospital Wing."

"Don't be a prat," she said, unmoved by his very serious threat. "I was merely suggesting that you killed your grandparents."

"What did you say?" he demanded loudly, pointing his wand in her face.

She shook her head. "I said I was suggesting-"

"Who told you that?"

"What?"

"Tell me right now. How do you- Who told you-"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I was trying to help you, you arse." Then she walked away, muttering about rudeness and unprofessionalism.

He was fine. This was fine. Whatever was happening, he could handle it. Either someone knew his secrets, or everyone knew his secrets. So, either he only had to kill one person, or everyone. Simple logic.

He found his way to his classroom, sat down at his desk, and waited for the first bell. As the students came in and took their seats, he monitored each one carefully. None of them were acting suspiciously. He took a calming breath and started to put notes on the board.

"Professor?" one of them called.

"Yes?"

"What's it like making a Horcrux?"

He nearly dropped the lesson plan he was holding. "What did you say?"

He turned around and they were all staring at him with large, mischievous grins.

Unsure of what to do, he retreated into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

What was happening?

Did they know…?

They couldn't possibly know…

But if they did…

He headed for his office and found Cornelia standing in front of the door.

"Are you alright?" she asked in an unusually concerned tone.

He glanced up and down the corridor several times. "I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow. "Obviously. Except you look like you just witnessed a murder or something."

"A what?"

"Murder."

"I don't know what you- what you're implying."

"Interesting," she said quietly, looking into his eyes like a doctor examining a patient. "I did not realize how weird you people could get until today. Ilania's acting strange, too. And Peggy. Anyway, enjoy… whatever this is."

She gave him a smile and a wave before walking away.

He paced back and forth in his office for half an hour, trying to determine whether he was going mad or if someone really _had_ divulged his deepest, darkest secrets to the entire school. He tried to recall what had happened that morning, and what he'd seen, but he couldn't concentrate. Maybe he'd been poisoned. Peggy did warn him, after all. Valentine's Day…

Minutes later he was knocking on the door to Slughorn's office.

"Just a mo'!"

The door opened and Slughorn greeted him, looking exhausted. "Let me guess," he said. "Hallucinations?"

"What? No, I was just…"

"Come in," he said. "Join the party."

"Party?"

Ilania and Peggy were standing on opposite sides of the room, staring daggers at each other. Grayson was on a sofa near the fire, muttering to himself.

"Grayson thinks World War Three has started," Slughorn said, rummaging through a large store cupboard in the corner. "Won't stop talking about the Statute of Secrecy and Muggle spies, or some nonsense."

"They're everywhere!' Grayson exclaimed. "They want to steal our women and corrupt our children with picture boxes and popular music!"

Slughorn ignored him. "Dee had been found shouting at her students about some sort of Russian conspiracy, and then flew off on a broom. No idea where she is. And I nearly had to stun those two." He pointed at Ilania and Peggy. "They had almost killed each other by the time Minerva found them and brought them to me. Then they tried to kill each other in here."

"She threatened me!" Peggy said, pointing to Ilania.

"Yes, because I love threatening pregnant women. Why don't you tell me why you tried to blackmail me?"

"I didn't!"

"Normally," he continued, "it's students and love potions I've got to deal with on Valentine's Day. Not this nonsense."

He gestured for Tom to sit down in a chair and gave him a mug of clear liquid.

"What is this?"

"Vodka."

"Right."

"Now," he said, rubbing his eyes, which had deep circles under them, "tell me your secrets."

"What?"

"Tell me your symptoms."

Tom shook his head. "I don't have any symptoms. It's everyone else. They've been-"

"Telling you about the murders you've committed?"

He stood quickly, nearly knocking the chair over behind him. "What did you say?"

Slughorn sighed in frustration. "Never mind. I'll add auditory hallucinations to the list, along with extreme paranoia."

"I am _not_ paranoid. Nothing is wrong with me. I only came here to-"

"It's the middle of the day, _all_ of us should be teaching right now, and you look like you just saw the ghost of Merlin himself. Clearly something is wrong. Be quiet and sit down."

Slughorn disappeared for a while. When he returned, he handed Tom a glass of something that was smoking and giving off a disgusting smell.

As he took the glass, he noticed that the man's hands were shaking badly. "Did you get poisoned too?" he asked.

Slughorn suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Er- no."

It took a while for everyone to calm down as their mental states slowly changed from terrified and suspicious to miserable and embarrassed.

Peggy was the first to break the silence. "How did this happen?"

Grayson shook his head. "No idea. I've been here a long time and I've never seen anything like this. Nothing quite so… odd.

"Purple," Tom said suddenly.

"What?"

"There was a… purple envelope on my desk this morning. It had…"

"Glitter?" asked Peggy. "I got one too."

"As did I," said Grayson.

Peggy voiced what they were all thinking. "If this was some kind of paranoia potion or something, I doubt a student is behind it. But who would target us?"

"And worse," Ilania added, "who would be perfectly alright with poisoning a pregnant woman?"

"I don't know," said Slughorn. "Whoever it was, they had a strategy. Clever of them to send it via letter on Valentine's Day."

Tom was furious. How could he have been foolish enough to open a suspicious envelope on the one day a year it was guaranteed that someone would try to dose him with something? Lestrange would have been appalled.

When he finally returned to his quarters sometime later, he pulled the letter out of the rubbish bin and examined it.

The paper was blank.


	17. The Nurse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Another humongous thank you to AFamiliarWitch, my beta, who really deserves an award, at this point, for putting up with me for so long. Like a Nobel for patience.

It was mid-February. Six weeks into a new term.

Half the castle had been eaten by a forest.

All the centaurs were dead.

The Deputy Headmaster was missing.

And Tom Riddle was going to kill Cornelia Fowler.

The day hadn't started that way. At first, it was just going to be blackmail or something similar. Then, sometime in the evening, the blackmail plan was promoted to torture. By the end of the night, it was murder.

But before any of that, there was the nurse.

Dippet's solution to the Valentine's Day incident was to place extra protections on all potions stores in the castle and to require all internal letters to be sent to his office for inspection and delivery. He also decided, for some unfathomable reason, that those involved in the incident should be evaluated by the nurse. Slughorn had insisted this wasn't necessary, but he was ignored.

In the morning Tom received a note, delivered via noticeably unhappy caretaker, that instructed him to report to the Hospital Wing at three o'clock in the afternoon.

Thinking it would likely be a quick physical examination and some questions, he decided to get it over with. So, at three o'clock he entered the Hospital Wing, where the nurse, Madam Sable, was waiting for him.

"Thank you for coming, Professor," she said. "If you wouldn't mind just putting your wand in here."

"I'm sorry?"

She was gesturing toward a small cabinet hanging on the wall. "It will be locked. No need to worry."

"I'm not giving you my wand."

"There are no wands or magical objects allowed in the infirmary, I'm afraid, outside of those with medical purposes. And as my office is inside the infirmary, you will need to relinquish your wand."

"Since when? And what, exactly, are 'medical purposes?'"

She ignored him. "If you wouldn't mind," she repeated, gesturing again to the cabinet.

He did not move.

"Alternatively," she said, "should you wish to do so, you may keep it on your person. But please note that there is an unpleasant flesh-burning charm protecting the area, and I am told the experience is agonizing."

Tom had never spoken to Sable before, and found that she had a kind voice, but was horribly matter of fact with it - like an auror that was smiling politely and putting a hand on your shoulder while simultaneously telling you that you were being sent to Azkaban for the rest of your life and would you like a cup of tea to cope?

He briefly considered simply walking out, or stunning her and then walking out, or killing her and then walking out. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now.

"You should also note," Sable added, "that performing unwarranted magic in any part of the Hospital Wing will result in a similar outcome."

How convenient.

It was just a physical examination and some questions. He doubted anyone would attack him in the middle of an infirmary. He could likely go a few minutes without his wand.

No. He would never place himself in a position like that. No possible circumstance existed that would justify him being unarmed for any length of time, including this one. What if the nurse needed to be subdued?

Why would the nurse ever need to be subdued? It would cause more alarm to refuse relinquishing his wand than it was worth. And he _had_ been practicing recently with more physical forms of violence. Perhaps-

"Professor?"

"Fine," he spat, reluctantly handing her his wand and immediately regretting it, suddenly feeling like every enemy he'd ever had was going to be on the other side of the infirmary doors.

"Thank you." She took it and placed it carefully inside the cabinet, which she shut and locked with her own wand.

Hypocrite.

"I'm assuming you have a special 'medical purposes' wand, then?"

No response.

She was very adept at making a person feel completely ignored, even while interacting with them. She opened the doors to the infirmary and led him toward the back, where her office was. The room was clean and white and largely empty, with nothing in it except two chairs, a small cabinet, and a desk with a quill and ink well on it. They sat down and she took out a long piece of parchment.

She dipped her quill in ink, scratched something on the top of the parchment, and then said, "I would like to start by reviewing your symptoms. Are you still having hallucinations?"

"No. They stopped when Professor Slughorn neutralized the poison, which I believe he told you-"

"What about voices? Do you still hear voices?"

"No."

"Any feelings of fear or paranoia?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I noticed that you were hesitant to relinquish your wand. Do you think that perhaps-"

"I am not paranoid."

Her face was blank. Completely blank. No emotion whatsoever. She nodded as she wrote, scratching far too many words onto the parchment for what little interaction they'd had.

"Did you have any of these symptoms before the incident?"

"No."

"Excellent. Thank you."

Maybe that was it. Maybe they were done and he could leave.

"I will now begin the psychological portion of the evaluation."

"The what now?"

He was really hoping she did not just say what he thought-

"The psychological evaluation," she repeated absentmindedly as she turned the parchment over and wrote something at the top again.

"I was not told I would be receiving a psychological assessment of any kind," he informed her.

She didn't bother looking up from her writing as she responded. "The poison you were exposed to caused symptoms of a psychological nature. We need to be certain that no one has been permanently adversely affected by it."

"And what exactly will this evaluation entail?"

"I will ask you questions about certain personal and professional aspects of your life to determine if any issues exist that warrant further treatment."

No.

This was not going to happen.

He had no doubt he could lie his way through it without a problem, but he did not want any record of anything "personal" to exist in reference to him anywhere for any length of time, even if it was mostly lies. He would simply give her a nice, happy memory of evaluating a completely normal person who gave completely normal answers. That would be the easiest-

He did not have a wand.

Unless he hit her over the head with a chair and fled the Hospital Wing, he would just have to sit through it and come back later tonight to destroy everything.

Although, the chair thing wasn't a bad idea…

No. Far too risky. This was merely an exercise in lying. He could handle it. Spit out whatever was already on file, then lie about the rest. It would be fine.

It was doomed from the start.

"May I have your full name, please?"

"Why do you need to know my full name?"

Now he definitely sounded paranoid.

She did not answer, but started to write on the parchment, more long sentences in thin handwriting. He couldn't read it from where he was sitting.

"What are you writing?"

"Is there a problem with your name?" she asked, ignoring his inquiry.

"What? No."

"Do you dislike your name?"

No, he did not dislike it. He _hated_ it. But… was this an evaluation question? Was she writing down that he was paranoid and secretive because he didn't want to give his name? Or was she just curious? He couldn't tell – her face was like stone. "It's fine," he said lamely.

"Then, full name, if you please."

This was starting out wonderfully. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Is that short for 'Thomas?'"

How the bloody hell was this relevant to anything at all? "No."

"No?"

"I do, in fact, know what my name is, and it is not 'Thomas.' Either that or I spent my entire life grossly misinformed."

"I see." She had started to write again.

He'd never been psychologically evaluated before. Even when he was younger and had so thoroughly annoyed and frightened the Matron that she felt her only line of defense was to threaten to throw him into an asylum. There was no way to tell what Sable was analyzing – his responses? His behavior? Both?

Were hesitant answers a bad thing?

Was he already marked down as a psychopath somewhere on that paper?

It didn't matter. He'd be destroying it anyway. But, still…

"What are you writing?" he demanded.

"Age?"

"Twenty-four."

"Birth date?"

"December thirty-first. Nineteen twenty-six."

She wrote. Multiple sentences, from what he could tell.

"Thank you. Let's start with family, shall we?"

"What?"

"Parents' names?"

"Mother was Gaunt, father was Riddle. Hence the last name 'Riddle.'"

"Are they alive or deceased?"

"Deceased."

"Were you close with them?"

"No."

"Any siblings?"

"No." Good lord. He could not imagine what that would be like.

"And what is your blood status?"

"I fail to see how that is relevant."

She tilted her head to the side slightly, examining him in a way that somehow felt even more intense than Legilimency. It was like her eyes looked right through him, through the wall, through the castle, and out into eternity. Then she started to write again.

"What on earth are you _writing_?"

"Why don't you think your blood status is relevant?" she asked after finishing her note.

"Because it has nothing to do with me being adversely affected by a poison for a single day, which is the reason I am here."

"I see." She nodded, took notes, gazed at him some more. "Are you sure it's not because you don't wish to talk about it?"

He glared at her in response.

"It's no matter," she said. "I'm sure your status is on file, here." She gestured toward the small cabinet in the corner. "But it would be easier if…"

He glared at her some more. "Half-blood," he muttered, making note to destroy the cabinet too.

She wrote it down. "And which side-"

"Mother."

Wrote it down.

"And where were you born?"

"London."

It was a longer note this time. "London" had six letters, not eighty. What was she playing at?

"I see. And where in London?"

There could not have been anything less relevant to brief poisoning than where he was born. But arguing relevance clearly wasn't going to get him anywhere. "Lambeth," he said.

"I see."

As she wrote at length about whatever psychological meaning Lambeth had that likely made no sense whatsoever, he wondered what she would try to do to him if he just got up and attempted to retrieve his wand from the waiting room.

"Were you raised in a wizard neighborhood?"

"Yes, in one of the many wizard communities that exist in Lambeth."

"So, yes, then?"

"No."

"I see."

If she said "I see" one more time he was going to rip that quill out of her hand and stab her in the neck with it.

"So was it a Muggle-"

"Orphanage."

"I see."

Fucking hell.

"Would you say you had a happy childhood?"

He made a face before he could stop himself. "Allow me to repeat my previous answer: orphanage."

"That would be a no, then?"

He stared at her.

She made a note. Her lack of sympathy was impressive.

"What do you think contributed the most to your unhappy childhood? Other than being raised in an orphanage."

"I'm not sure. It might have been living in the city, or being poor, or maybe it was the massive, violent Muggle war I had to live through."

"Right," she said quietly.

"Right," he spat back.

"I would like to revisit blood status for a moment," she said, ignoring his growing impatience.

"Why?"

"Do you consider blood purity to be an important characteristic of a person?"

He didn't know how to answer that. Did the Heir of Slytherin consider blood purity to be an important characteristic of a person?

"No," he lied.

"You seem hesitant. This is a safe space. Please feel free to discuss-"

"No."

She looked at him carefully, her face still blank. It was becoming rather unsettling. He'd seen corpses with more emotion.

"Let's talk about relationships," she said after a while.

"Let's not."

"What is your marital status?"

He was extremely annoyed now. "Single."

She took note. "And is that by choice?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Are you currently looking for a partner?"

"No."

This time, she did not write down the answer. Instead, she stared at him for what felt like ages, her eyes unmoving, and he was beginning to wonder if she really was trying to read his mind. "Interesting," she said.

"Why is that interesting?"

"Any current sexual relationships?"

"No. Why is that interesting?"

"Have you ever been married?"

"No. Why is that interesting?"

"What have your past romantic relationships been like?"

If he'd had his wand he would have cursed her five times over by now. "'Nonexistent' is, I think, the most accurate description."

He knew he was going to get notes for that one. Maybe he should have lied a bit more. Made up some prolific romantic history with a string of forlorn lovers. That was probably more normal than not having any relationships at all whatsoever.

"Thank you. I'll need to know a bit about your education and professional background. Year of graduation?"

Dear lord. This was never going to end. "Nineteen forty-five."

"Would you say you were a high-achieving student?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"I achieved a high number of things."

He could have sworn he saw her eye twitch a bit. "I mean, how were your marks?"

"I never received anything below 'Outstanding.'"

"Really? That is quite impressive." She seemed suspicious. What he said might have sounded a bit arrogant, but it was also true. She could look it up in her tiny cabinet of secrets if she didn't believe him.

"Did you have many friends in school?"

If you could call them that. "Yes."

"Were you often disciplined for bad behavior?"

"No."

"Previous place of employment?"

Borgin and Burke's Shop of Moderately Disappointing Horrors. "Borgin and Burke Alternative Magical Supply and Trade Company."

"Did you leave said place of employment under negative circumstances?"

He reminisced briefly about the lovely mess he'd left his bosses on that last day at the shop. He wondered what ever happened to them. Dead, hopefully. "No."

"Have you ever been terminated from a place of employment?"

"No."

"Do you enjoy your current position? Are you happy in your career?"

It was extremely, _agonizingly_ difficult not to laugh hysterically at that. "Yes."

"Thank you, Professor. We are almost done. Please answer these next questions truthfully."

Was she suggesting he hadn't been answering the _previous_ questions truthfully? Because that would have been accurate.

"Do you suffer from any sort of addiction? Potions, substances, food, sex, that sort of thing?"

Did fantasizing about murdering people count? "No."

"Do you ever have thoughts of harming yourself?"

Apparently, since he thought deciding to become a teacher was a good idea. "No."

"Do you ever have thoughts of harming others?"

Every single day. "No."

"Do you feel that some people deserve to be punished?"

Yes. "No."

"Do you feel some people deserve to be rewarded? With wealth and success and such."

Yes. Tom M. Riddle, for sitting through this nightmare without killing anyone. "No."

"If you could describe yourself in three words, what words would you use?"

He blinked stupidly at her. "What? I don't understand the point of that."

"Just try."

"No."

The slight, almost imperceptible shadow of an emotion briefly passed over her face, and he was fairly certain that emotion was annoyance. "I must insist," she said.

If he responded with positive traits, he would sound arrogant. If he responded with negative traits, which he would never do in any scenario the universe could come up with anyway, he would sound weak. What neutral traits were there?

"Human," he said.

There was definitely annoyance in her face now. "And?"

"Male."

"Professor Riddle, do please try to answer the question."

"I am answering the question."

She studied him for a moment. Then she set down her quill, opened a drawer in her desk, and pulled out a square piece of paper. "This is what I use when I evaluate the younger students, Professor. Perhaps it will assist you in answering the question if you are having difficulty."

There was no hint of mockery or condescension in her voice, which somehow made it even more offensive. The paper had boxes with words in them like "confused," "sad," "clever," "afraid," and "ambitious," and each one was paired with a poorly drawn face.

He was going to kill her. "I do not need-"

"Brilliant. Then allow me to ask the question again. If you could describe yourself in three words, what words would you use?"

She was a monster. A clever, intimidating, corpse-faced monster.

"Intelligent," he said.

"And?"

"…Discerning."

"And?"

He sighed and glanced quickly at the paper with boxes on it. "Ambitious," he muttered.

"I see."

And then she wrote. And wrote. He sat there for two minutes, three, five…

"Thank you," she said after finishing her notes.

"Please tell me we're done."

"Not quite. I just need to examine a few things." She came around the desk and bent down to look at him, sticking her very brightly lit special medical wand in his eyes, switching from one to the other. Strangely, it reminded him of something.

Several thoughts crossed his mind at once and merged into a single, simple idea. A realization.

Cornelia.

Cornelia had poisoned them.

Cornelia, who would have no reason at all to talk to him or seek him out, had been standing in front of his office that day, during his… episode, as if she had been waiting for him to show up unexpectedly while he should have been teaching.

And when she saw him, she had examined him. She didn't glance at him, make a face, or look concerned. She _examined_ him. Just like the nurse.

He didn't know why, or how, but he was certain Cornelia was responsible for the poison. And he was willing to bet she had something to do with those vials of whatever-the-hell substance that were making their way through the student population, too. Vulnerable, impressionable children walled inside a castle for ten months were undoubtedly a captive market.

And, if he was right, then _she_ was the reason he had been forced to sit through a bloody psychological evaluation.

She would pay dearly for that.

"Professor?"

"What?"

"I asked if you've had any trouble hearing lately. Twice."

"No."

Sable took his wrist and held it. "Your pulse is a bit fast."

"Is it?" Feeling murderous probably had that effect.

Then she felt his forehead with the back of her hand.

"I never had a fever," he told her.

"No, but you look very pale."

"I'm always pale. Are we done?"

She gave him one last blank, corpse-like look.

"Yes," she said, returning to her desk and rolling up her parchment. "That will be all for now."

He was already leaving.

"However, Professor, I do wish to recommend a course of counseling to address-"

He slammed the door behind him.

* * *

He went straight from the Hospital Wing to his office, scrawled a quick note on a piece of paper, then rushed to the Owlery to send it. The letter told Lestrange to hand over everything he'd found on Cornelia Fowler, regardless of his progress. If there was enough evidence, they might be able to expose her as the criminal she surely was, which would be a fitting response to her _poisoning_ him.

Unfortunately, the situation was far worse than he had assumed.

They met in the Hog's Head that evening, despite Lestrange's insistence that one should never visit the same pub twice.

"I'm telling you, we're being watched."

"Lestrange, I do not have the patience to deal with your unique brand of paranoia right now. Just give me the information."

He pulled out of his robes a large package wrapped in brown paper. He set it on the table, glanced around nervously, untied it slowly, removed several charms he had apparently placed on it, unfolded the wrapping-

"Any time, Lestrange."

"Sorry, boss. Can't be too careful." He chuckled as he opened the first folder. "I thought maybe you were doing a sort of stalking thing. You know, some weird way to get to know a pretty woman."

Tom sighed. "Yes, because that is definitely the sort of thing I would do."

"Hey, I don't judge. To each his own, or whatever."

"That is not what I was doing."

"You don't have to explain it to me. That's your business."

"Jesus Christ, Lestrange. I was _not_ -"

"Anyway, she is much more interesting than you said. Hope she doesn't turn out to be an enemy. That would not end well for you."

"She already is an enemy."

"That won't end well for you."

"Thank you for that assessment."

There were folders upon folders of pictures, news clippings, and official documents. Whatever this was, it went far beyond selling illegal potions to students.

It appeared that Cornelia Fowler was not only a criminal, but a crime _boss_ , as well as, possibly, an infamous dark witch and part-time guerrilla terrorist.

First, Lestrange had found evidence that she had been forced to cut her research sabbaticals short at both Castelobruxo and Uagadou for "unknown reasons," but separate news stories from the same time periods showed significant stores of expensive and rare Potions ingredients and equipment being stolen, and several members of the faculty disappearing without a trace, only to be found months later. In pieces.

Then there were the undeniable links between Cornelia and a well-known Dark witch by the name of Reyes, who had been active in America, gaining followers and building networks, until she disappeared two years ago.

There was also the Muggle photo of a woman who looked remarkably like Cornelia posing with a group of Paraguayan soldiers during some recent civil war, dressed in a military uniform and carrying a large gun.

He was not terribly surprised by the nature of her activities, but the _scale_ was impressive. His desire to take over wizarding Britain was suddenly starting to feel rather small.

"I was in Florida when I got your letter," said Lestrange, "poking around a few warehouses there. That's where she's been, you know, for the last month."

"Florida?"

He nodded. "I'd been hoping to capture and interrogate a few of her lackeys that worked on the docks, but…"

"But?"

"They're all Muggles. Makes it more difficult."

"I take it she has no aversion to mudbloods, either?"

"Loves 'em. A proud mudblood herself, from what I can tell."

But it didn't quite make sense. If she was already so powerful and well-established elsewhere, why would she bother coming here? What did she need from Hogwarts? It wasn't like she had-

She.

_She_.

"I have to go," he said, gathering up the files and tossing Lestrange's payment on the table.

"Boss, don't engage. If she's this Reyes person, then her dueling skills are unmatched on at least two continents, maybe three. If you even attempt-"

"Yes, thank you. I get the idea. Give me your knife."

"What?"

"Your knife. I need to borrow it."

Lestrange looked bewildered. "When have you ever used a knife?"

"Just give it to me."

"It's just a knife. It ain't magical or anything."

"I don't need it to be magical."

"Ah." Lestrange smiled. "Proper fun, then."

Without wasting time, he made his way back to the castle and headed straight for the Room of Requirement.

The impostor was hers. He had to be. She was certainly conceited enough to think that she could plant a false Dumbledore at Hogwarts without anyone noticing, and she likely had the knowledge to give him a disguise that could not be removed with magic.

And he wouldn't put it past her to have killed the real one.

More importantly, if she _was_ the "she" that Dumbledore kept talking about, then she had the Sword.

He hadn't returned to the Room in over a week, mostly because he was too busy with teaching, but also because he didn't think he would accomplish anything if he attempted another interrogation unless he beat the man to within an inch of his life.

He was certainly willing to do that now.

The prison cell had expanded since his last visit. It now included an entire wall of books, several new pieces of furniture, a fireplace, a much larger window, and a small, decorative plant that sat in a pot in the middle of the table.

And the prisoner himself was sitting in a large armchair by the fire, reading and drinking from a wine glass.

"How are you doing this?" he demanded, taking note of the soft, red curtains that adorned the window.

"Oh, it's you," Dumbledore mumbled, not bothering to take his eyes off his book. "Doing what?"

"How are you- Never mind. Tell me who 'she' is."

"She?"

"You have mentioned a 'she' several times now. Who is 'she?'"

Silence.

"Is her name Cornelia?"

He was hoping for a look of fear, or surprise, or an "oh no, my secret is revealed!" face. He got none of those.

"Who?"

"Cornelia Fowler. She's your boss, isn't she? The one you so humbly serve? Sent you here to dispose of the real Dumbledore, no doubt, and fool the rest of us into believing that everything was normal."

Dumbledore set down his glass and closed his book slowly. "Can't say I've heard of her."

"You keep saying 'she.'"

"I do. Mostly because it annoys you to no end."

Tom raised his wand and a thousand black ropes flew out of the end of it. They streaked across the room and wound themselves tightly around the impostor like vicious, determined snakes, tying him to the chair so that he was unable to move.

"Please kindly remember," Tom said quietly, "that you are _my_ prisoner. Not the other way around." He made a movement with his wand and the ropes tightened even more.

"Yes, you- you are making that quite- quite clear," Dumbledore stuttered, struggling to breathe.

The Room had decided to join in the fun, apparently, as a layer of thick, heavy chains had suddenly appeared on top of the ropes.

And before the idiot could find some unique, magic-defying way to escape, Tom put Lestrange's knife to his throat.

"Now," he said, feeling the familiar sense of calm that came from being fully in control of a situation, "I'm going to ask you one more time. Who is 'she?'"

Dumbledore mouthed something incoherent.

"What?"

"I can't say."

"I'm sure you can."

He went silent, but Tom wasn't having it. He pressed the knife hard enough to the man's skin to draw blood.

"I- I don't work for Cornelia."

"Who _do_ you work for?"

"Whom."

"What?"

"It's- it's 'whom,' not 'who.'"

"I'm holding a knife to your throat and you're correcting my grammar?"

"A risky move, I'll admit."

He tried one more time. " _Whom_ do you work for?"

"You," the impostor croaked.

"What?"

"I sup- suppose I work for- for you, now."

Tom drew the knife back the tiniest bit so that the idiot could still feel it while being able to talk. "Explain."

"If I don't tell you whom I work for, you will-" he wheezed loudly, "-will kill me. If I _do_ tell-" (wheeze) "-tell you whom I work for, _she_ will kill me. Unlike my counterpart, I am far more dedicated to self-preservation."

"Except when it comes to grammar, apparently."

"We all have our priorities. Anyway, it appears my safest course of action may be to change allegiance."

It was almost disappointing how un-Dumbledore-like the man was. Then again, Tom did not technically know how the real Dumbledore would react to a knife being held to his throat, so maybe this was an accurate portrayal.

And then he was suddenly _very_ curious about what the real Dumbledore would do with a knife to his throat.

"And how does having your evidently changeable allegiance benefit me, exactly?"

"W- well," the impostor wheezed, "I have abilities that far surpass y- most of the wizards here."

"And?"

"And I pass successfully as the Deputy Headmaster of this extremely disorganized place-"

"As long as no one talks to you long enough to find out what a complete arse you are."

"True. I also know where the Sword is."

"Where is it?"

"Well, I can't exactly _tell_ you."

Tom was drawing blood again. Worse, this time. It had started to drip down the front of the impostor's robes. "You _will_ tell me. Right now."

"I can't. Even if- if I wanted to. I am Bound."

"What do you mean 'bound?'"

"I cannot reveal the name of my… former employer, nor can I reveal her location, which also happens to be where the Sword is. To do so would sentence me to a violent, painful, and somewhat immediate death."

"An Unbreakable Vow?"

Dumbledore laughed between wheezes. "Imagine an Unbreakable Vow with the ability to not only kill the person that breaks it, but torture them into insanity first. And there are no limits to what stipulations are given. It is not an agreement between two people. It is a Bond between a master and a servant."

"So, you're a servant?"

"In a manner of speaking. She could break the Bond now, if she wanted. I expect she'll consider it, since I haven't reported back in a while..."

"I fail to see how someone who is trapped in a terminal agreement with another person could possibly be useful to me."

Dumbledore was looking weary now. "I can't say her name, I can't say her location, but nothing is stopping me from being a party to… other agreements. Or vows."

"That is hardly a change of allegiance. And I do not make Unbreakable Vows. I do, however, issue contracts."

"Contracts?"

"Think of them as something between an Unbreakable Vow and your ridiculous death bond. Not quite as versatile or amendable, but just as painful and deadly."

"Brilliant," Dumbledore said flatly.

"But why should I believe a word of your ludicrous 'Bond' story? How do I know that this isn't all a ruse? That you're not just placating me until you can escape or strike back?"

"Will the contract not appease you?"

Tom thought for a moment. "Give me something now. Prove to me your usefulness before I waste any more time keeping you alive."

"You are looking for Cornelia, yes?"

"No, I just came in here shouting her name at you for fun."

The impostor chuckled. "Fortunately, I have only met Cornelia once. And during our brief conversation – in which she had used the most colorful term 'self-righteous prick' to describe me – I did manage to read her mind."

"And?"

"Her head was filled with thoughts about some experiment. 'Launch the experiment,' 'monitor the experiment,' and something about Valentine's Day. I'm not sure what the date is currently, since I am being held hostage, but-"

"What else?"

"The only other thing I caught was that, after the experiment, she had intended to dispose of what she called 'nonessentials,' starting with her immediate supervisor. She was contemplating the most efficient and… _entertaining_ way to kill him."

"Supervisor?"

"Yes. You may want to check on him."

* * *

He hadn't seen Slughorn in days, which was highly unusual, and he wanted to kick himself for not noticing it.

There was a chance that the impostor had read his mind and was attempting to distract him just to keep from being interrogated further. But it did not hurt to check and make sure Slughorn wasn't lying dead somewhere. The man was still useful in most respects.

He wasn't in his office, or anywhere in the dungeons. Tom tried his quarters next, already picturing in his head the scene of a recently murdered Slughorn, followed by the immensely satisfying scene of himself killing Cornelia slowly and painfully.

"Horace!" he yelled, banging on the locked door.

There was a faint murmur from inside.

He removed the door with a spell, a bit more forcefully than he had intended, and found Slughorn on the floor of his own living room, shaking and holding himself, but still alive.

"What happened?" Tom demanded.

He smiled weakly. "Oh, I just have a few health issues I need to take care of." He sounded like he was trying to be his normal, cheery self, even as he appeared seconds away from losing consciousness.

"I have to admit, Horace, you're not looking well."

He frowned. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, you are currently lying on the floor, sweating and shaking and mumbling to yourself. So, yes, I would say it is. What happened? Were you attacked?"

"No," he said as Tom pulled him to his feet and helped him to the sofa. "I just- I was fine… and then… I wasn't."

"You seemed alright on Valentine's Day."

"Oh, well that's good, at least. I don't remember Valentine's Day, but it's nice to know I was conscious for some of it."

Tom looked around and all he saw were vials. There were empty vials on the coffee table, in an ashtray, in the rubbish bin, on the floor… They were everywhere. "Might your current state have anything to do with those small vials of liquid you've been carrying around and that are now decorating every inch of your flat?"

He looked ashamed. "It might."

"Where did they all come from? And what are you doing with so many of them?"

"I was looking for… But they're all empty." He grabbed a couple of vials from the end table nearest him and turned them upside down. "I thought maybe I'd find a few drops here and there…"

"How did this start?"

"They just showed up one day, last summer. At my door. A whole carton of them."

"And you just started taking them?"

"Well…"

"You're the _Potions_ Master. Surely you thought to _test_ the random substance that suspiciously showed up on your doorstep before blindly ingesting it?"

Slughorn squinted his eyes as if he were trying to recall something. "I don't remember... why I didn't..."

This had the unmistakable signs of the Imperius Curse. Or memory modification. Still, given what Tom knew about Cornelia now, Slughorn was probably lucky to be alive.

"I did try to stop, but I couldn't. I just couldn't."

"So, you're addicted to it?"

"No, no. It's not a drug. It can't be. I have never- I would never-"

"Right, but you still have no idea what it is. So, technically, it could be."

"You are not helping me feel better."

"But why didn't you-"

"Look, I don't know," he said, sounding frustrated. "It would show up at my door and I would take it and... and then everything would be wonderful for a while. But I needed more and more just to be able to function-"

"Yes, Horace, that is how recreational drugs usually work."

He sighed and shook his head. "Dear lord. I might as well be a tramp living on the streets of Knockturn Alley."

Tom told Slughorn to stay in his quarters, deciding not to make his condition even worse by mentioning that the Potions Understudy might try to murder him at some point. The man already looked on the brink of death.

He put the door back into its frame and covered it with protective charms, wondering why Cornelia would bother to turn Slughorn into an addict if she planned to get rid of him anyway. Perhaps Dumbledore had been mistaken. Or maybe the "entertaining" part of her killing him was watching him descend into withdrawal-induced madness first.

He was going to kill her.

When he finished the charms on the door, he made his way out of the dungeons with the intention of finding and slowly torturing Cornelia until she confessed to every crime she'd ever committed, and then torturing her some more before the satisfying finale.

But she found him first.

He had just passed the staff room when he saw her standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall, staring at him with a big, satisfied grin on her face. She had a large bottle in her hand.

He pulled out his wand, but before he could do anything, she threw the bottle onto the ground. It shattered into pieces, releasing a thick, purple mist that filled the entire area in seconds, moving so quickly that it was impossible to avoid.

He attempted to curse his way through it, pushing toward the Great Hall to catch Cornelia before she could escape, but nothing could dispel it. Before long, her triumphant, smiling face was shrouded behind a cloud of purple fog, and she disappeared.

And then _everything_ disappeared.


	18. I'm Not Calling You Howie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Infinite thank yous to my beta, AFamiliarWitch, who should just be sending me invoices for time worked, at this point.

"Sir?"

He was standing at the front of the classroom. The fourth years were staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something.

He thought he might have been in the middle of a sentence, but he wasn't sure. He felt like he'd just woken up. He had a book open in one hand, and a piece of chalk in the other.

That did not seem right.

"I- what was I talking about?"

"Russia," said one of the students. "And Communism."

What the hell did Communism have to do with the Dark Arts?

He realized at that moment that none of the students were wearing robes. And the classroom he was in was not his own. The walls were not made of stone but rather some sort of concrete, painted white and cracked in places. The desks were different, too. There were large, square windows on the right side of the room, and through them he could see a dingy courtyard covered in patches of dead grass and surrounded by what appeared to be a Muggle office building.

His classroom did not have windows. His classroom was in a castle. Where was the castle?

"Sir?"

They were all still staring at him.

"Where are we?" he demanded.

The students glanced at each other in confusion. None of them said anything.

"Where are we?" he repeated.

"Please, sir, we're in the history classroom."

"I mean where in the country."

"Sir, are you alright?"

"Answer me!"

"Surrey," a few of them said, looking fearful.

"Why- why are we in Surrey?"

He turned over the book in his hand so that he could read the cover: _19_ _th_ _and 20_ _th_ _Century Western Politics._ Then he noticed that he was not wearing his robes, having apparently replaced them with stiff Muggle clothing.

"What class is this?"

They were whispering to each other now. "History," one of them said.

Instinctively he reached for his wand, but it wasn't there. That was the moment in which he became moderately concerned.

He threw down the book and began searching the teacher's desk, frantically opening metal drawers and shuffling through fountain pens that were not quills and papers that were not made of parchment.

"What are you looking for, Professor?"

"My wand. Where is my wand?"

There was a closet in the back of the classroom, and he immediately set to tearing it apart while the students looked on with concern.

"Sir," said one of the boys, "you haven't been drinking again, have you?"

He stood up and turned around slowly. "What do you mean, 'again?'"

Silence.

He threw open the classroom door and stepped into the hallway, which consisted of more hideous concrete and a floor covered in linoleum tiles.

This was a dream. It had to be. There was no other explanation. A dream or a hallucination or-

 _Cornelia_.

The memories returned slowly, one by one. He could still picture the smug, satisfied smile she wore right before she disappeared, and he desperately wished he'd had the chance to curse it right off her pretty American face.

Whatever was going on here was surely related to that strange purplish mist she attacked him with. He was probably lying on the floor in front of the staff room right now, unconscious and drooling in some undignified manner. And she was either fleeing the castle or standing over his body, about to kill him.

He walked slowly down the hallway, casting wandless, nonverbal spells in his head, none of which were working. If this _was_ a magic-induced hallucination, he needed magic to get out of it.

A door opened several feet away, and from it emerged a familiar face.

"Morning," Minerva mumbled indifferently, walking past him like their entire world hadn't just disappeared and deposited them into an infernal Muggle hellscape and she was going to go read the paper and maybe do the crossword.

She looked strange without her hat and robes.

"Minerva?"

She stopped. "What?"

"You don't seem to be very concerned by the fact that we are no longer in the castle."

"What castle? What are you talking about?"

"The castle. Hogwarts."

"What the hell is a Hogwarts?"

"It's- it's _Hogwarts_."

"Oh, well, that explains it. Cheers."

He should have started with the basics.

"Please tell me you know that you're a witch."

Wrong basics.

Her face went very red very quickly, and the look she was giving him could only have been described as murderous. "It is nine o'clock in the morning, Riddle. I do not need to be criticized about my personality by a coworker at nine o'clock in the morning."

"No, I wasn't-"

"And you have no room to talk, with your temper and your incessant 'look at me! I went to Oxbridge! I know everything!' attitude."

"What?"

"So keep your unsolicited opinions to yourself, or next time I won't use words to communicate-"

"No, Minerva, I'm saying magic is real. Tell me that you know magic is real."

She blinked stupidly at him. "Are you drunk again?"

"What? No. We are trapped in a potion-induced hallucination."

"Alright," she said, folding her arms. "So magic is real, now, apparently, but our lives are a hallucination?"

"Yes. Sort of."

She walked away without another word.

He decided to try one more time. He opened the next door he came across, which evidently was Peggy's classroom. She, too, was in Muggle attire, and was writing mathematical equations on the board.

"Oh, good morning, Professor," she greeted. "What can we do for you?"

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

She set down her chalk and joined him in the hallway, closing the door behind her. "Shouldn't you be teaching right now?"

"Probably. Does the word 'Hogwarts' mean anything to you?"

She stifled a laugh. "What warts? Oh, my. That sounds like a medical condition."

"No, it's- it's a school. What about magic? You know magic is real, right?"

He already knew the answer.

"What are you talking about?"

There was a significant chance that he was the only one here that remembered anything about their real lives. That was fine. Everything was fine. All he had to do was stay sane long enough to figure out how to wake himself up and end this nightmare.

With no help.

And no magic.

And a small but growing sense of cosmic inevitability.

"You are a witch," he explained, "I am a wizard, and we work at a school of magic called Hogwarts."

"A school of… magic," she repeated lamely.

"Yes."

"Is this a religious thing? I don't really-"

"How did we meet?"

"At the start-of-term staff meeting last August. Dippet told you to introduce yourself and you got up and spoke at length about your degree and awards and-"

"Degree?"

"Well, yeah. You seemed quite proud of it."

Naturally. "My degree in…?"

"History."

He made an involuntary choking noise. "I have to go," he muttered, walking off in a random direction in search of the staff room or the headmaster's office or _something_ that made bloody sense.

Whatever phenomenon was occurring wanted him to believe there was no such thing as magic. But it was not as if he could be fooled. He already knew it was a hallucination – that his mind was making it up somehow.

He just didn't know how to escape.

That was what Cornelia's goal had been - to incapacitate him with some sort of nightmare potion. If he could remember the process for freeing oneself from magic-based illusions, he could end this quickly and wake up in time to kill Cornelia before she had a chance to leave the castle. But the only methods he could recall were triggering a traumatic event or dying. Something to shock the brain back into consciousness.

And if it was a shared hallucination – if anyone else had been caught up in the mist – they would need assistance as well. But that was unlikely. It had been three in the morning when Cornelia attacked him.

He was so deep in thought he did not notice Slughorn standing at the corner and nearly walked right into him.

"Good morning, Tom."

He looked at the man and felt a strange sense of relief. "Horace, I need your help."

"Oh, my. 'Horace?' Only my mother calls me 'Horace!' You know I go by 'Howie.'"

The relief vanished instantly. "I- I'm not calling you 'Howie.'"

"You look like you're having a horrible morning. Another weeknight visit to the pub, I take it?"

It was becoming apparent that this imaginary version of himself had a few minor problems with alcohol, and he wasn't sure how to feel about that. "No. Actually, I was wondering if you could…"

"If I could?"

Magic. He had to ask about magic. "Just please, tell me…"

"Tell you what?"

Magic. Shared hallucination. Magic. "WHY DO I TEACH HISTORY?"

Slughorn backed away a bit. "Eh, are you alright, son?"

"No."

It was getting to him. The potion, or whatever it was, was getting to him. He was focusing on the wrong details. He had to maintain control or he would end up lost in his own mind forever.

Or at least until Cornelia decided to kill him.

Slughorn started making his way down the hallway and motioned for Tom to follow.

They stopped in front of a nondescript-looking door with a sign on it saying "Chemistry Department." It was apparently Slughorn's office, though it did not look like anything the actual Slughorn would ever have been able to tolerate. The room was small and shabby. It just managed to fit a desk, two chairs, and a bookcase, but not much else.

Slughorn sat down behind his desk and unlocked a metal drawer with a tiny key. From it he pulled out a large bottle of brandy.

Evidently, some things were truly universal.

"Sit down," he said, pouring them each a shot glass full of brown liquid. "What's bothering you?"

He could not sit. He had started to pace, his mind racing. He knew he should have asked about magic. Made sure Slughorn, like the rest, knew nothing about their reality. But he could not focus on anything else except-

"Why history? Of all things. History." It didn't matter in the least, but- " _History_."

"Ah, I see what's happening now. Having a bit of a career crisis, are we?"

"What? No. I want to know what ridiculous part of my subconscious decided to equate Defense Against the Dark Arts with History."

"Defense Against what now?"

"For you, Chemistry makes sense. Potions, Chemistry. Fine. But why would _I_ teach history? Why would my brain ever think that was a reasonable scenario?"

Slughorn studied him for a moment. "I can't tell you that, Tom. You've always been very passionate about it, I know that. Your degree-"

"Where did I get this so-called degree?"

"Oxford, obviously. But I think you mentioned once that you also considered becoming an accountant."

"Accountant?" He collapsed into the chair, feeling ill.

This was pointless. None of it was real. He needed to obtain actionable information, not compile a review of his manufactured past so that he could brutally judge his nonexistent Muggle self for making poor life choices.

Muggle self.

He felt even more ill.

"What do you know about magic?" he asked Slughorn in a resigned sort of way.

"Well, everything, of course."

"I'm sorry?"

"I was wondering when someone was going to inquire about it!"

The man was smiling with excitement, and for a moment he looked like the real Slughorn. If Tom was sharing this hallucination with a real Slughorn, they could figure out an escape route much more quickly.

"So, you know about magic?" he asked, daring, perhaps foolishly, to hope-

"Of course!" Slughorn opened another drawer and pulled out a deck of playing cards. He broke the deck into three separate piles and set them on the desk.

"Now," he said, "if you don't like cards, I can do disappearing, too."

"I- what?"

"I perform them both in my act. I do hope you come to see it."

"What act?"

"My… my amateur magician act. Isn't that why you're asking about magic?"

Tom stared at Slughorn. There was a funny ringing sound in his ears. He swore he could hear the universe laughing at him. "I have to… go," he mumbled, rising from his chair.

"You'll come to my show, won't you?" Slughorn asked as he shuffled his deck of cards poorly.

"Horace, there has never been anything I've wanted to do less."

He wandered out into the hallway. He had no idea where his "classroom" was, but he decided to look for it. He needed answers, and maybe something was hidden there, where the hallucination had begun, that could tell him what to do. Every minute he spent here was another minute in which Cornelia was escaping.

The building was a single hallway in the shape of a square with a depressing courtyard in the middle. It only took a few minutes to find the history classroom again. There was a small plaque on the door that read "History and Economics" and he tore it off and threw it on the floor. He would have lit it on fire, too, if he could.

The fourth years were still sitting there, chatting and carrying on. They quieted down as soon as they saw him.

"What time does this class period end?" he asked them.

"In five minutes, sir."

"What were we talking about?"

"The Soviet Union."

"What did you learn about last week?" He was more curious than anything.

"The Bolshevik Revolution."

"And before that?"

"The Russian Empire."

What the hell? "Is Russia all I talk about?"

The children gave each other nervous looks. None of them wanted to answer.

"Brilliant," he muttered.

"Actually, sir," said a very foolish boy in the front, "you talk about China, too."

"Great. Why China?"

"You just… really don't like Communism."

The bell rang, a horrid, ear-splitting sound, and the students filed out of the classroom, a few of them glancing back at him with concern.

He decided to search for the staff room – not that he expected to find answers there, but at least it would feel like he was doing something. He had to make two passes around the building before he found the door, which he had mistaken for a utility closet. The small, faded sign on the wall beside it said "S FF RO M."

Either because the mist that created this world had a disgusting sense of humor, or because his brain could not come up with anything else, the staff room had an uncanny resemblance to the one at Hogwarts. The only things missing were the fireplace and the stone walls.

Even the Ugly Table was there.

Tyre was settled in his usual seat, reading a paper called _The Observer._ Fogg was in the kitchen.

And Kettleburn had trapped him in a massive hug before he even realized what the bloody hell was happening.

"Please get off of me," he choked.

"You poor thing! All that misery! I've been thinking about it all weekend."

"Please get off of me," he repeated, wishing he had kept a pen on him for stabbing purposes.

Kettleburn released him and shook his head in despair. "A depressing but inspirational story. I'm glad you told us. It makes sense now, of course. I mean, the temper and everything-"

"What the fucking hell are you talking about?"

"The… the whole orphanage thing."

"The _what?_ "

Minerva came in at that moment, saw him, and made a face. "Oh, it's you," she muttered. "Trying to garner sympathy from everyone, I take it?"

Kettleburn looked scandalized. "Minerva! After everything he's been through!"

She snorted. "Kettleburn, you'd hug _Grindelwald_ if you thought he seemed slightly depressed. Stop being fooled by poorly constructed sob stories." She slammed her mug on the counter, yanked the kettle from the stove, angrily poured the water, then slammed the kettle back down onto the stove with a loud clang.

She glared at them both as she left.

"You know," Kettleburn said kindly as they watched the door slam shut, "if you ever need to talk-"

"Silvanus, if there ever comes a time when I approach you wanting to 'talk,' please, I beg you, shoot me in the head."

Back in his classroom, he began to devise a strategy for waking himself up. Nothing he considered was pleasant or painless, but anything was preferable to spending the rest of his life trapped in this repulsive, modern Muggle hell.

Students had started to arrive for his next Russia-themed class, and he wondered if he could convince any of them to hit him over the head with a blunt object. Maybe the shock and pain would be enough to wake him. He was still, perhaps pathetically, holding out hope that he was sharing this hallucination with someone – _anyone_ – that could do magic.

He started the class with purpose. "Do any of you know anything about magic?"

Judging by the clueless looks on their faces, they did not.

One boy meekly raised his hand. "Sir, my aunt is in a church and they live in the woods and build fires and-"

"Cult, Wagner," said the boy beside him. "That's called a cult."

"No, it's not! Anyway, they use magic all the time."

"Cult magic."

"There's this program," one of the girls said, "on the wireless, and I think it's got a witch in it."

"My mother doesn't let me listen to that because it offends God," said another.

"That show is boring, anyway."

"You're boring!"

"Shut it!"

They started arguing and he had no desire whatsoever to stop them. He certainly wasn't going to teach. None of the students were real. And he cared for Muggle history about as much as he cared for Quidditch. While the children bickered, he stared at the ridiculous fountain pen on his desk, willing it to fly up into the ceiling like a javelin, thinking he was probably going to have to throw himself off the roof in order to get out of this nightmare.

And then the fountain pen flew up into the ceiling like a javelin.

"Oh."

The class fell silent as they gazed up at the thing, which had lodged itself deep into the disgusting ceiling tile. He hurriedly searched through drawers and cabinets, collecting every other pen he could find and setting them all on top of the desk. There were dozens of them. Why he had so many, he could only guess. Saving them for when he became an accountant, probably.

He cleared a space on the desk and set a single pen down carefully onto the wood. He stared at it while the class looked on with interest.

He stared.

And stared.

"Eh… sir?"

"Shut up."

More staring.

He knew he could do it. He just had to-

The pen suddenly stood up on its own, then shot toward the ceiling with the speed of a bullet, burying itself into the tile a few inches away from the other one.

The students were stunned. Some of them clapped.

"How did you do that, sir?"

"Do it again!"

"Can you teach us?"

It went on like that for a while until he was certain he could manage it without intense concentration. He felt like he had at the orphanage, all those years ago, when he'd finally succeeded in floating a stone in the air for longer than a second, right before watching it fall and becoming extremely angry, then accidentally making it throw itself through a window.

When the bell rang, there was a knock on the door and Peggy poked her head in. "Professor, I was wondering-"

She froze when she realized what she was seeing: every student was out of his or her seat, crowding around the desk and staring in awe at the ceiling above, which now had about a hundred pens sticking out of it.

"Yes?" Tom said casually.

"I- I'll come back later."

"No need. We're done." He threw the rest of the pens into the rubbish bin, ignoring the students' disappointed groans.

"For homework," he told them, "write something about history."

Peggy seemed bemused by that. "'Write something about history?'" she said as they walked out into the hallway.

"They'll figure it out. What did you want?"

"Well… Walk with me to the cafeteria. I'll explain."

Apparently, it was lunchtime.

The entrance to the cafeteria had a sign above it that read "The Grayson Grayson Memorial Canteen." It was already crowded by the time they got there. The large, rectangular room was filled with long, rickety tables and malodorous rubbish bins. It looked like a cross between a questionable tube station restaurant and the kitchen at the orphanage. Gloomy and impoverished, but in a modern sort of way.

"Good lord, I miss the Great Hall," he said.

"The what?"

"Never mind."

He followed Peggy to the food line. Dee Carson was standing behind a counter, serving people, the look on her face more depressing than anything else he had seen so far. He made a mental note to never, ever tell Dee his brain had equated her job to being a lunch lady. She'd break his neck for it.

"Now," said Peggy, handing him a tray, "I know you keep botching things with Minerva, so I came up with a plan."

"A plan for what?"

"For getting her to say yes the next time you ask her out."

He dropped his tray on the floor with a loud clatter. "I don't- why on earth would I do that?"

"Well, I told you after the first time that it was a risky endeavor. She's not exactly the type to go out on dates. Especially with coworkers. But you were determined."

"No, I'm fairly certain I wasn't."

"The last two times, I think, showed considerable progress."

"There were no times. There were zero times. And anyway, she appears to moderately despise me." Not that it mattered in the slightest.

"Yes, but only moderately! That's one level down from severely, which, I think we can agree, is where you started."

The food behind the counter looked like mush. Several different types of mush, in a variety of unpleasant colors, accompanied by something that might have, at one time, been considered bread. The smell was nauseating. "I need to go now," he said, setting down his tray.

"Don't you want to hear my plan?"

"Good lord, no."

Once again, he found himself wandering the hallway, as if repeatedly traversing the same square-shaped path over and over would yield new answers. Surely Cornelia was long gone by now. Or maybe an hour in this torturous existence equated to mere seconds in the real world, and she was still there. He chose to believe the latter – looking forward to brutally murdering a colleague was the only encouragement he'd had so far.

He passed the door to the courtyard and a bitter, revolting smell hit him. Two students appeared to be hunkered in a corner, smoking cigarettes. Out of habit he made to confront them and dole out punishment. They had seen him coming, of course, and they were frantically trying to hide the contraband.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir. We found them. We didn't know what they were. They just lit themselves, I swear!"

"First of all, why would you think the most optimal location for smoking in the middle of the school day was the courtyard that can be seen from almost everywhere in the building? And second, what the hell kind of excuse is 'they just lit themselves?' It's like you're not even trying. I expect more from random students manifested by my own potion-addled brain. Honestly."

They stood with their heads down, awaiting punishment.

Smoking was a disgusting, useless Muggle habit. He never cared for it, never even wanted to try it. The very idea was repulsive.

"Give me one," he said quietly.

They seemed surprised. One of them handed him a pack and he pulled out a single long cigarette. He could already smell the foulness.

He held it between his fingers and stared at it.

And stared at it.

And fucking stared at it.

Finally, after a full minute of frustrated glaring, the tip of the thing started to smoke and spark. That was more like it. He took a celebratory drag and then realized, wheezing, that he did not smoke.

"Jesus Ch- Christ." He threw the cigarette onto the ground and walked away.

"Sir?" one of the boys called, "what about our punishment?"

He turned around and stared at them. "You've really got to get better at this," he said.

He returned to the hallway for the hundredth time and found Ilania walking quickly in the opposite direction. She appeared distressed.

"Hello," she said as she passed him, not bothering to look up.

"Hello."

Something made her stop. She turned around and stared at him, eyeing him up and down, her head tilted to the side slightly and her mouth hanging open.

"Are you an illusion?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.

His heart started to race. "Illusion? What do you mean?"

She walked up to him and peered into his eyes as if desperately searching for something. "I thought maybe it was everyone, but then it seemed like just me, and…"

"What are you saying?"

She took a deep breath. "None of this is real," she said. "It's an illusion. I woke up here and it felt like I knew the place, but then I realized it was all wrong because everyone here is a-"

"Muggle."

Her eyes widened. "YES! Oh, thank god. I thought I was alone and stuck forever and I can't be stuck here forever, Tom, I can't. They have me teaching biology. BIOLOGY, TOM!"

"Alright, calm down." It was good to know it wasn't just _his_ brain that had designed this infuriating nightmare.

She took a few calming breaths before continuing. "And there's no bloody magic."

"Well…"

She stared at him. "Are you saying you were able to cast something?"

"A bit. In a manner of speaking."

The bell rang and children started filling the hallway. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into a closet and closed the door.

It was awkward.

"What did you manage to do?" she asked impatiently, her face full of excitement.

"Why are we in a closet?"

"What did you _do_? Tell me!"

"I launched a pen into the ceiling."

"You…" She sighed in utter disappointment. "A pen."

"Well, dozens of them, actually. One at a time. Performance was consistent."

"A pen," she repeated.

"I'd like to see _you_ try it," he said defensively.

"Well, I have no idea how to get out of here or why I'm even here in the first place. I mean, I know it's a hallucination, but-"

"I know why we're here. Where were you before this all happened?"

"I was on the marble staircase, I think. Walking downstairs to fetch something from a first-floor classroom."

"I was in front of the staff room door. It was Cornelia."

Ilania looked bewildered. "Cornelia? What did she do?"

"She released some kind of potion. A mist that filled the entire first floor. She wanted to incapacitate us so that she could escape. Or kill us while we're lying unconscious-"

She put a hand up to stop him. "Hang on. Why would she do this in the first place? And what makes you think she wants to kill anyone?"

" _She_ was responsible for Valentine's Day. For poisoning us. And she has been running an illegal potions trade among the students all year. She's a dangerous criminal." 

Ilania bit her lip. He could tell her mind was working furiously to comprehend it all. "Fine. That's one issue. The bigger problem right now is getting us out of here."

"I know how we can escape, but it's not pleasant."

He explained what he knew, and minutes later, they had a plan. It was not a nice plan, but it was something. They locked themselves in an empty classroom to work out the details and to… practice.

"Try it again."

"I _was_ going to try it again! Stop telling me what to do."

He folded his arms. "My apologies. Clearly you are the expert, even though I'm the only one of us that has actually managed it so far."

"You said that. Ten times now. Shut up and let me concentrate."

Her brow furrowed. She was extremely focused, so focused that her cheeks were going red and her eye had begun to twitch.

A second later, one of the pens rolled off the desk and fell pathetically onto the floor with a clatter.

"I DID IT!" she cried, jumping up and down like a child.

"Yes. You, or a small gust of wind. Hard to tell."

She stopped jumping. "I hate you."

"We need more power. We're never going to reach the point of being able to do the bloody Cruciatus Curse if it's going to take this long to get the basics down."

"Let's just keep practicing. Maybe we can blow the place up with Fiendfyre instead."

He sighed. "Yes, as soon as we graduate from moving pens a couple of inches at a time, we'll jump right to Fiendfyre."

She thought for a moment. "Well, we could always…"

"What?"

"We could always make a bomb."

He stared at her. "You're suggesting we actually blow ourselves up?"

"No, but we could frighten ourselves…" She threw her hands up in frustration. "I don't know! You said intense fear!"

"Yes! But preferably not intense fear that could also kill us! Do you even know how to make a bomb?"

"I… know… how to make a lot of different types of bombs."

"Why-"

"Don't ask. Not important. But it would certainly be shocking enough, wouldn't it? To be in close proximity to an explosion?"

He would have preferred accomplishing their escape with magic, but there simply wasn't time. And, unfortunately, the bomb idea was the most likely to succeed. He did not care for bombs, so they would probably be even more effective. There was no way the plan could fail to wake them up. However…

"I am not fond of bombs."

Ilania rolled her eyes. "Alright, let's just chuck ourselves off the roof and hope we get it right the first time."

After fifteen minutes of strategizing, which had turned into arguing, which had then turned into them wanting to kill each other, which might have solved the problem then and there, they had a new plan. Ilania made a list of required components and they set out to find them.

He had only been in the hallway for a few minutes before he caught sight of Minerva, who was waving at him and trying to get his attention. He turned and walked the other way.

He did not want to talk to her. He did not want anything to do with her, especially if she was under the impression that this idiot Muggle version of himself had suggested some kind of liaison. It wasn't real, of course, but if they came out of this nightmare remembering things, it would make interaction with her extremely annoying, and he did not have the patience for that sort of nonsense.

"Stop walking away, you bastard!" she yelled before he could turn the corner and disappear.

He stopped. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to apologize for what happened this morning. It was quite unprofessional-"

"Minerva, I don't even remember what happened this morning."

She ignored his interruption. "It was quite unprofessional of me. I know you have trouble communicating. I should have-"

"Wait, why do you think I have trouble communicating?"

"Well, you said you did. Because of your childhood. I can't imagine growing up in an orphanage-"

"How on earth do you know about the orphanage?"

She frowned. "You… You told us at the last happy hour. I think you were a bit-"

"There is not a single possible circumstance in any version of any universe in which I would ever attend something called 'happy hour.'"

Now she was annoyed. "Well, forgive me, your majesty, but if I recall correctly, last Friday you got completely drunk within the first half hour, spent the next half hour mumbling about your unfair childhood, then ended the evening yelling at everyone for daring to split the bill evenly because if you didn't order cocktails, you should not have to pay for cocktails."

"That- that is not- I would not do that."

"That's a pretty standard Friday evening for you, to be honest."

"There was no Friday evening! None of it was real. That never happened. But magic is real. And I can prove it this time." He pulled a pen out of his pocket.

"What the hell are you doing? You're not going to stab me, are you?"

"Just look."

"I have no desire to hear any more about…"

Her mouth fell open.

He was floating the pen in the air above them. It swayed a bit, then shot out of sight.

"Well, shit," she said.

And then she broke all the windows in the hallway.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled.

"Was- was that me?"

"Were you _trying_ to break all the windows?"

She prodded a piece of glass on the ground with her foot. "I was trying to open one. But magic… that explains the desk transfiguring, then. Is that even a word? 'Transfiguring?'"

"Yes. It's a word. What did you transfigure it into?"

"Er- I guess you could call it an explosive ball of fire."

"So, you _blew up_ a desk."

She shrugged. "Maybe. Is this really all a dream?"

He explained about the mist, which then required him to explain what a potion was, and about Cornelia, and who Cornelia was, and the fact that they were likely lying unconscious on the floor somewhere. And then he told her their plan for escaping.

"Absolutely not."

"It's the only way."

"What if it doesn't work? And what about everyone else? We have no idea who is real here, and who isn't. What if we trap someone here forever?"

"All we have to do is search the castle for anyone else who is unconscious and revive them."

"We just have to traumatize ourselves to near death, first."

"Yes."

"No. I won't do it. Not if there's a chance that this is real, and that we could put children in danger."

"Not children. _Illusions_. And if you remember our world at all, then why would you even consider any of this to be real?"

"I said no, Tom."

He glared at her. "Fine. Do you know where the caretaker's shed is?"

"Shed? There is no shed. The janitor has a closet, though. Why?"

"Because I'm bored and I want to sweep the floor. Just tell me where it is."

It took half an hour to find everything, and he arrived at his 2 o'clock class carrying a large box of components. Luckily, they were sixth years - old enough to follow instructions properly.

"I'm assuming," he told them, "that we're in the middle of some module related to Russia."

"We're doing the War, sir."

"Perfect. For this class, we are going to set up a practical demonstration of wartime ingenuity. Follow me."

This was either a brilliant strategy or the deadliest, most violent, most idiotic idea he'd ever come up with.

If it turned out to be the latter, he could always blame it on Ilania.

The auditorium was a large, ugly room with rows of hard, uncomfortable-looking seats and a poorly lit stage at the front. Beery was already there with a crowd of students, practicing some Muggle play, no doubt.

"But the wonderfullest trick of all," one of the students was saying, reading from a battered script, "was the coffin trick. We nailed him into a coffin and he got out of the coffin without removing one- er- Sir?"

"What is it, Singleton?" said Beery.

The boy pointed to the back of the room, where Tom was standing with his class.

"Oh, hello, Professor!" Beery greeted. "Do you have the auditorium booked for something? We sort of just commandeered it, you know. For some extra practice."

Tom approached the stage and set down his box. "Yes. Booked."

"Ah. Not a problem. I must find Professor Kettleburn anyway, before he burns down what small portions of the set we've managed to build so far." He ushered his students out of the auditorium.

Ilania arrived and took over, directing the sixth years and putting pieces together with alarming speed. Progress was steady, and they were quite far along before the cavalry came.

Minerva had barged into the auditorium like a bull, accompanied by Slughorn, Peggy, and Fogg. She ordered the students to leave and then rounded on Ilania.

"Relax Min," Ilania said, cutting off the woman's tirade before it could start. "It'll be fine."

"Fine? _Fine?_ "

While the women argued, the rest of the professors stood there, watching Tom with worried faces and being utterly useless.

"Er- Tom?" said Slughorn.

He removed the caps from several petrol containers and then stood up. "What?"

"Is there a reason you are constructing a very large bomb in the middle of the auditorium?"

"Yes."

"Right. This isn't because of the history thing, is it?"

He thought for a moment. "Actually, I think you could say it is."

Having no success convincing Ilania to stop, Minerva then attempted the same on him. He was barely paying attention.

"We evacuated the children," she tried to tell him.

"Mm." The wires were almost fully attached now.

"Do you even care whether or not we evacuated the children?"

And the timer fit into the little slot he had made quite nicely. "Not really."

"You're mad. Both of you. This is madness. You're going to get yourselves killed!"

For a moment, Ilania looked like she was starting to have second thoughts. "I need a cigarette," she muttered, and disappeared backstage.

Whatever Miss Follow-the-Rules was going to yell at him next never came. She had fallen silent, her face blank.

"There's another way," she said quietly.

Tom sighed. "If you are about to tell us to think of the children or consider a non-violent solution or some rubbish-"

"No, I mean there's another way to escape."

"What are you talking about? You didn't even know what Transfiguration was an hour ago."

"Fine. I may have… understated what I remembered. A bit. It doesn't matter."

"So, you lied?"

" _Anyway_ , I know that a hallucination like this requires crafting. Cornelia didn't just knock us out and then hope that our brains would come up with something. She must have tailored the illusion to fit whatever torturous scenario she wanted, which means she will have left a mark."

"And what would this 'mark' look like?"

"I don't know."

"Brilliant."

Seconds later, Ilania had returned, and they shared with her Minerva's inane theory. But instead of brushing it off, she smiled.

"Why are you smiling?" Minerva said impatiently.

"Because, I think I know where the mark is."

She took them through the building and out the front doors, not stopping until they reached the car park. "I came out here hoping to have a smoke before I remembered nothing was real, and I saw that." She pointed at the front of the building, upon which was written, in giant red, white, and blue letters, the name of the school:

CORNELIA FOWLER'S SCHOOL FOR BRITISH DUMB-ASSES

"Well," said Tom, "I think that qualifies. How do we destroy it?"

Minerva grimaced. "Magic, I think. If we can manage it."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice behind them.

They turned around to find Cornelia standing there, grinning at them like a lunatic. She looked like Christmas had come early.

"Oh, I hope I'm standing over your bodies right now. That would be a good laugh. How long have you been wandering around this government-funded wasteland?"

"Long enough to want to murder you when we get out," said Ilania.

"Get out?" She laughed. "I'm here to make sure you _never_ get out. But maybe, if you're _really_ nice to me, I'll give you a hint."

There was a sizeable hunting knife in his quarters that Tom was itching to bury into this lunatic's chest. "Are you saying you know how we can escape?"

"Of course, asshole. It's _my_ potion."

"Then tell us."

"What's in it for me?"

Minerva groaned. "Cornelia, either tell us how to escape or shut your big fat American mouth before I curse it off."

"With no wand?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out."

Cornelia sighed and rolled her eyes in the most obnoxious way possible. "You're all so _boring_. And arrogant. And prudish. Do you have any idea how hard it was to go an entire year without killing one of you? But I'm a reasonable person. If you want to escape, here's a hint-"

But they never got to hear what the hint was. The entire front of the school had chosen that moment to violently explode, the force of it almost knocking them over.

"Oops," said Minerva.

"Did you just blow up-"

"I am under a considerable amount of stress right now!" she yelled.

And with that, the mist returned, and everything disappeared.

* * *

He felt like he hadn't slept in weeks.

He had woken up with an unpleasant jolt and, naturally, found himself on the floor. The others were already in the staff room. Ilania was pacing back and forth, muttering about biology, and Minerva was staring into the fire.

The first thing he did was test himself. He used his wand to set the Ugly Table on fire.

Beautiful, glorious magical destruction.

The other two didn't seem to notice.

He spoke first.

"Ilania, why do you know how to make bombs?"

She frowned. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that. What I want to know is why we could recall who we were right away, but Minerva couldn't."

"It was odd," said Minerva. "I had distinct memories of that place. I thought it was all real until at least lunchtime."

"What happened at lunchtime?"

"I saw how disgusting the food was and suddenly remembered the Great Hall."

He did not like the idea of the Muggle version of himself existing in anyone's memory for any length of time. "Does that mean you remember-"

"You do not want to know what I remember."

"Right."

A few quiet minutes went by before anyone spoke again.

"What did you teach?" he asked Minerva. "If not Transfiguration?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I'm just curious."

She sighed. "Literature."

Ilania snorted. "Really?"

"How was biology, dear? Did you enjoy it? Discover a love for dissecting small animals? Thinking about a career change?"

Ilania pulled out her wand. "Shut up before I murder you."

They went silent again.

"Did you really grow up in an orphanage?" Minerva asked Tom after a while.

Ilania stared at him. "Orphanage?"

"We're wasting time," he said firmly. "We have to find Cornelia."

"We do," Ilania agreed. "Do you think there's any chance she's still in the castle?"

Minerva got up and headed for the door. "Let's find out."


End file.
